


This Pregnancy Keeps Dragon On

by HarbingerofWhimsy (WhimsicalCivet)



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Dorian is there to help, Drama, F/M, Hand Jobs, Humor, Lack of Communication, Language, Like Adults, M/M, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Misunderstandings, Morning Sickness, Oh almost forgot, Post-Endgame, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Prompt Fic, Romance, Sexual Content, Unplanned Pregnancy, Violence against bad guys, Withdrawal, Working things out, because seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-04
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-02 19:39:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4072117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalCivet/pseuds/HarbingerofWhimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guinevere Trevelyan: Herald of Andraste. Inquisitor. Slayer of dragons and old-god prophets. She wasn't really looking to add 'pregnant' to her never-ending list of descriptors. </p><p>In which Cullen and the Inquisitor fail to communicate (before working things out), mess things up again (Dorian can fix it), Cullen is an awesome partner (but a little paranoid), and the Inquisitor discovers that while being pregnant is not exactly complicated, it's far from easy.</p><p>Smut in the first chapter and the beginning of the third is a light E, but easy enough to avoid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which There Is A Failure to Communicate

**Author's Note:**

> A randomized pregnancy prompt gone awry. If I get anything wrong, it's entirely my fault - apologies. 
> 
> Thanks to my lovely gal pals for describing the horrors and wonders of this mysterious condition for me. I'm still not sure if I'll ever have kids - but if I do, I'll be a bit more prepared.
> 
> As always, if you spot a mistake, hit me up!

Guinevere doesn't tell Cullen. And she won't—not until she's sure. Oh, it's not that she doesn't _want_ to. She desperately, fervently does, but the last thing she wants is to add to his worries, what with her fighting Corypheus and red templars and _dragons_. It pains him enough as it is that he can't be with her on the field—while she spends her days running from great bears and gutting abominations, he's tied down in Skyhold training recruits and fighting his own never-ending war against paperwork. It frustrates him, to say the least.  
  
"You're certain?" she asks Solas.  
  
"I am. A few weeks, at most." Solas is many things, but no one can accuse him of not being _thorough_. They've been sitting in his office for what feels like hours, surrounded by painted eyes and the distant caw of dozing ravens far above. He'd taken his time, examined her top to bottom, eventually honing in on her stomach. The soft pulses of magic around her belly left her nerves shot, hands trembling before she had squeezed them tight on the edge of the table. Her green-grey eyes couldn't seem to focus on any one thing, leaping from Solas, to the now-silent library balcony just over their heads, before skittering over the elegant murals on the walls.  
  
_'Will he paint this, too?'_  
  
Solas' confirmation dashes her hopes that her late cycle is nothing more than the result of stress or the mark or that bad batch of wine Dorian had convinced her to try. Of course, she's never been a healer—always sweat and fire and sharp, jagged things, even before becoming a knight-enchanter.

She holds a blade better than a baby; wears blood better than a sling.  
  
Solas takes her hands in a rare moment of affection, stirring her from her thoughts. "I would wish you congratulations." His lips twitched wryly. "But I have a feeling such sentiments would be unwelcome at the moment."  
  
She attempts a reassuring smile. It falls flat and toes the line of bitter instead. Guinevere does manage to squeeze his hands in return. "I'm sorry for being so grumpy about this. It's just, the timing is..." She drops his hands, scrubs frustrated fingers through her red hair, unbraided for the moment. She tugs, the twinge of pain centering her.  
  
He watches her cautiously. When he speaks, his tone is gentle. "There are... herbs. If that is an option you wish to consider."  
  
And she does consider it. According to the novels, she should be feeling joyous, ecstatic even. The way her father had told it, her mother was skipping around for _weeks_ after the healer had told them of the coming child. Guinevere had wanted children once, furious when a life in the Circle tore the choice from her. She should be glowing and radiant.  
  
She doesn't feel radiant. She feels... a bit sick, any sense of happiness buried under the heavy weight of dread. They are in the middle of a _war_. She is the _Inquisitor_. The title hangs sour in her mind. Hadn't that been what Cullen had said? Andraste's ass, she's been fighting for almost three years now. She sets things—and people—on fire. Her closest friend dances corpses like marionettes. She kills dragons so often that Josephine is scrambling to find more room in Skyhold for the trophies. She is not exactly a _suitable_ parent, and there was not a more—she almost laughed at the thought— _inconvenient_ time to have children.  
  
And yet some part of her wants to be selfish; desires this one, maybe _always_ inconvenient, thing.  
  
Isn't this what she fought for? A chance at normalcy?  
  
"No," she says. Her jaw tightens as she inhales, exhales slowly, lets the determination sink into her bones. Some of her anxiety fades. Her hands even stop shaking. "I'm going to try. I have to, Solas."  
  
He nods at her, already returning to his brushes and jars of paints. "I will prepare a tea for you to drink," he says absently, considering his current project with a frown. "It should help quiet the nausea. I have enough herbs for a week's supply." He swipes red carefully along the wall. "I will need to gather more the next time we travel to the Storm Coast."

"That's one thing less to worry about, at least," she sighs.  
  
As she walks out, she hears Solas call after her, "Cullen will make an excellent father."  
  
That, at least, they can agree on.

* * *

  
  
She decides, with the sort of foolish, optimistic hope she really shouldn't have at this point, that she will wait for the right _moment_. She imagines confessing it as they lie together in bed on one of those rare, lazy mornings; fantasizes about the way Cullen would kiss her, touch her, after the words slip out. Would he be fiery and desperate? Or soft and reverent? Would he flutter his hands around her still flat belly? Slide his lips down her skin until he could rest his cheek against the spot where new life grew?  
  
Yes, Guinevere decides. _That_ is what she will wait for—that special moment. Never mind that mornings like that only come once in a blue moon now, both of them frequently too exhausted to do more than embrace briefly before curling up under the blankets.  
  
She waits too long.  
  
One week later, Corypheus opens a rift above Skyhold, pulls the ruined Temple out of the ground like a child's toy. She's forced to leave Cullen behind, all the while hiding the shaking in her hands and the roiling in her gut. She doesn't tell him about the additional life riding on their success—on _her_ success.

* * *

  
  
Somehow, she survives. They all do. They live, and Solas, _'the bastard,’_ runs off to Maker-knows-where. It seems like all of Skyhold is there to greet her when she staggers back through the main gates. She returns to Cullen's embrace—an embrace that she spends far too long in considering the crowd waiting on her. She breathes in deep, buries her face in the ruff of fur around his collar and clings tight, soaks him in, _'alive, alive, alive, we're alive,'_ allows herself a moment of peace.  
  
The crowd roars when she is presented to them.

* * *

  
  
Before the night is even out, she has to swear Dorian to silence—he is horrible at keeping secrets, except when they're his and he can gloat. His discovery of her pregnancy in and of itself is accidental.  
  
"A shame our favorite healer appears to have run off. Fortunately for you, I'm a man of many talents!" He waves imperiously at her as they trek back up the steps towards the main hall of Skyhold.  
  
"Is that so?" she says dryly.  
  
"Of course, dear Inquisitor! Prepare to be healed!" Feeling the touch of magic along a small cut on her arm, she rolls her eyes. Her potions have healed the worst of her injuries, and she was _careful_ , so she's not exactly in need of this, but she'll let him have his fun. She just can't quite bring herself to laugh with him, not tonight, not with the weight of her secret dragging like heavy chains behind her. A scrape on her forehead closes next, and peacock that Dorian is, it is done with a tiny star-burst of green light—an added flourish. A tingle starts along her ribs where stiffness lingers and her eyes widen as panic sets in.  
  
"Dorian, don't—" she blurts, but it's too late, the tingle blooming and spreading to heal the bruising, passing across her abdomen. His mouth drops open in shock.  
  
"I can't believe you!" he crows. "You're—!" His affronted squawk of surprise as she claps a hand over his mouth would be amusing in any other situation. With quick strides, she drags him to a darkened corner of the main hall, across from Varric's thankfully vacant fireplace.  
  
As soon as she turns to face him, Dorian continues where he left off. " _—_ _pregnant!"_ he finishes boldly, pointing one accusing finger at her.  
  
"Quiet!" she hisses. "Do you want _everyone_ in Skyhold to know? Why did you even try to heal me?" She is gesturing wildly, and it takes a few curious glances from others in the hall before she drops her hands. Dorian's flare for dramatics is rubbing off on her. She pinches the bridge of her nose in frustration."Maker's breath, Dorian. You're not even a healer!".  
  
"It was a joke! You know, usually followed by a laugh? Ha-ha? That thing you used to have called 'a sense of humor'?" He narrows his eyes. "But my excellent healing skills aren't the issue, are they? You haven't told him."  
  
Her face begins to burn and she can't meet his eyes. She fiddles with her hair instead, imagining the red strands have come loose from their messy braid, trying to ignore the way his sigh fills her with guilt.  
  
"Guinevere, I may not be one or your advisors, but as your dearest friend, and a friend of Cullen's, believe me when I say that you _need_ to tell him." And he is not joking now, tone gone deadly serious. "Trust me when I say that secrets tend to fester." A hand rises to squeeze her shoulder in encouragement.  
  
"I'll tell him tonight," she promises weakly, eyes finding Cullen down the hall where he is speaking with Leliana. The Commander catches her gaze, smiles at her, looking so ridiculously _happy_.  
  
"It will hurt him the longer you wait," Dorian says quietly, watching the ex-Templar as well. "I care about the both of you too much to let something like this tear your sickeningly-sweet relationship apart."

She tilts her head at him and the man smirks, can't help but add, "as a fee for my excellent advice, I expect the child to be named after me."

* * *

  
  
Guinevere waits for Cullen upstairs that evening, stares out the balcony and listens to him move around the room behind her. "Something's been bothering you all night, Gwen." Cullen has stripped himself of his armor, and as he sets the last piece aside—now in just a worn tunic and breeches—he approaches her cautiously. When she doesn't reject him, he slides his arms around her from behind, drops his head to her shoulder and nuzzles against the side of her neck with a sigh. When she slides one hand up into his hair, he rumbles a pleased sound, leaning into her hand.  
  
_'All this time and still touch-starved. Oh, Cullen...'_  
  
She's twisted, examined, planned this moment over and over in her mind, but she's still not ready for it. Things _changed_ when Corypheus came, when she left without revealing the life she carried. And now, trying to find a way to explain why she waited, why she still _fought_... how could she reveal any of it without hurting him?  
  
If there was a way, she couldn't see it. Dorian was right, though: it would only get worse the longer she held out.  
  
"I have something to tell you," she says softly. Cullen stiffens immediately, head retreating from her shoulder. He spins her carefully. Guinevere doesn't even realize she's crying until his thumb brushes her cheek, wiping a tear away. His amber eyes are large and worried, jaw clenching, but he waits, doesn't interrupt, allows her to work up her courage. She's grateful for it.  
  
She swallows hard, twice, before she manages to work the words free: "I'm pregnant, Cullen."  
  
The blood drains from his face. She watches the play of emotions on his features: shock, amazement, fear, joy. And then he's cupping her face in his trembling hands, eyes wide. For a moment, she allows herself to think that maybe it will be ok, that maybe she's done this right. "I... Maker, Gwen, are you sure?" His voice cracks.  
  
"I am. Solas was very clear."  
  
And there it is. She can see it the moment he does the math, counts the days, realizes that Solas wasn't _here_ after her battle with Corypheus. Which means...  
  
"You knew?" He whispers.

Maker's breath, it hurts the way he looks at her: like he's waiting desperately for her to deny the implication or explain it away.Part of her wants to tell the lie, but she can't. He deserves honesty, and her confirmation drops like a stone: "I did."

His reaction is immediate. "You knew and you didn't—" Cullen's hands leave her, dropping to his sides before they lift to run through his hair, raking through the curls as he backs away.  
  
"I was waiting for the right moment," she insists, but she knows it's not an excuse, not really. The truth grinds inside her, sensing its moment, swelling and boiling under her skin, pulling at its chains.  
  
"Andraste preserve me. You went to fight Corypheus." There is horror in his voice now, anger and disbelief. "You went to Corypheus when you were _pregnant_ and you never told me!"

The chains crack, snap, shatter into dozens of pieces.  
  
"And who else would have done it, Cullen?" she snarls, and it's bursting free like water from a dam, crashing down to drown them both under its weight. Fear and anger light her blood ablaze, blinding her to him and his own hurt. "I _needed_ to do this. If I had told you, would you have let me keep fighting?"  
  
"Yes!" he shouts, whirling to face her. His hands are shaking where they are fisted at his sides, and oh, he is _furious_ , pupils dilated and jaw clenched. "I would have let you go, because you are the _Inquisitor_." He gives a bitter laugh. "And it would hardly be my place to stop you. What I _would_ have done is sent more men with you! I would have made sure you were—"  
  
"What? Safe? Protected?" She cuts him off, voice rising to match his. "That ship has long since sailed, Cullen. Or did you forget the mark on my hand?" the hand that she shoves forward now, green light sparking in her rage, and she does not miss his flinch. His reaction just makes her angrier, helps her justify her false righteousness. "I am perfectly capable of protecting myself.  _No one else_ could have stopped Corypheus. I had to do it."  
  
"You think I don't know that?" He storms away from her, beginning to pace in front of her windows. "That it had to be you? I knew you had to go, but you couldn't even trust me that much, could you?" He stops abruptly, posture sagging as the fight leaves him and resignation sets in, a child's doll on cut strings. A cold feeling begins to spiral out from her chest. "Not even enough to tell me about our _child_ or let me _help,_ " he whispers, a little shiver running through him. He begins to move towards the stairs. He can't meet her eyes, and she realizes Cullen is _leaving_ and this is _wrong, wrong, wrong_.  
  
"Cullen, wait, don't—" Her rage blinks out in the space of a heartbeat, vanishing into desperation because she can't do this by herself, needs him here like she needs her skin or her bones but he is already retreating to the door.  
  
"I'm sorry, Guinevere. Forgive me."  
  
She'd thought the sound of the Fade cracking open was the worst sound she'd ever heard, or maybe the memory of Leliana's last prayer in the hellish future. The shriek of the terror demons was a regular attendee of her nightmares.  
  
The quiet solemnity of the door closing puts those sounds to shame.

* * *

  
  
This is all wrong. It was supposed to be a peaceful, joyous thing. They were supposed to laugh and skip and dance and all the other flowery bullshit Varric was so fond of putting in his romance novels. Instead it's _this_.  
  
It's her pacing in her room, moving to her bed only to toss and turn as the _seconds, minutes, hours_ crawl by.

It's downing the last of her tea alone, the bitter tang on her tongue fitting, all things considered. She curses Solas for leaving without giving her the recipe, though she's not even sure why she bothers to drink it now. It may calm the nausea but it does nothing for her mood.  
  
It's her prowling the halls of Skyhold in the pale dawn light because her bed might as well be a yawning chasm for all its emptiness.  
  
It's sympathetic looks from Leliana and a knowing sigh from Josephine, a quiet, _'lover's quarrel?'_ on the lips of the nobles loitering in the main hall.  
  
It's a magically-conjured snowball pelting her in the back of the head when she finds herself hiding in a darkened section of the courtyard, studying the door to Cullen's office. She feels like spitting fire as she whirls to face Dorian, who levels her with a stern glare, entirely unrepentant. "If you don't try to talk to him, I'm tying you both together and leaving you in a closet somewhere to work out your differences. You're both being absolutely _ridiculous_."  
  
And maybe they are. That's what she tells herself when she finds herself in front of Cullen's tower door, hand raised to knock. She wants to run and never come back; she wants to burn the door down and force her way in. She does neither of those things, raps her knuckles against the wood instead. "Cullen?" Guinevere calls.  
  
No answer.  
  
"Cullen, we need to... Oh, Andraste's ass, I don't know." Her forehead thuds against the solid oak with a groan. "We need to do something. I don't know if it's talk or argue or... maybe just you listen while I apologize?"  
  
Still nothing. Her nails curl into the door before she pulls away, scratching at the wood. She doesn't allow herself to turn back as she leaves, hurries down the stairs. She tells herself she is imagining the sound of the door behind her cracking open.

_This_ is listening to a very, _very_ angry Tevinter mage shout in Cullen's office loud enough to echo across the courtyard as she escapes up the stairs back to the main hall and her room. She tells herself she'll find a way to make this right. And if not, she thinks bitterly, her friends mean she will never be short potential babysitters.

* * *

  
  
Guinevere practically leaps out of bed, honed reflexes forcing her into action without thought, when the door to her room slams open and shut—the bang loud enough that she imagines the stone chipping and the wood splintering. As she moves, she snatches up her arcane blade's hilt. It blazes to life, flickering blue warring with the warm light of the fire in the hearth, casting stark shadows around the room. Her fingers tighten on the hilt, a cool breeze from the open balcony doors stirring the curtains and the hem of the old tunic she wears to sleep.  
  
She's entirely unprepared for who she sees coming up the stairs. "Cullen?" The blade winks out, leaving only the hearth's glow. As he prowls towards her, narrow-eyed and predatory, half of him is lit by red-gold firelight, the other half in darkness. He isn't in his armor, instead wearing loose leather breeches, hastily tied, and a worn, pale tunic not unlike hers. Soft boots quiet his steps. His hair is messy, beginning to curl, and the stubble is heavy along his jaw. Guinevere has to stop her body from trembling, an instinctive heat rolling through her at the sight of him looking like something torn from one of Varric's romance serials.  
  
"Cullen..." her voice comes out a whisper, sword hilt falling to the ground. As he closes in, she can see his pupils blown wide and dark, almost swallowing the amber of his irises. There is a flush on his cheeks, his breath harsh and ragged.  
  
He doesn't answer her, doesn't even stop moving. One sword-callused hand grips her hair, tilting her head back, and then Cullen's mouth is crashing into hers, fierce and hungry and desperate.  
  
A soft cry escapes her. He kisses her like a man drowning, teeth sharp on her lower lip as he bites before soothing it immediately with his tongue, sliding it hot and slick into her open mouth when she gasps. Her hands climb, one fisting in his tunic while the other scratches along his scalp and down the back of his neck. She pulls him closer, arching her body towards his, moaning as he begins to crowd her backwards towards the bed.  
  
"The thought of you," he mutters, not able to finish his thought before he attacks her mouth again.  
  
They strip each other frantically, Cullen almost tearing her tunic in his haste to tug it over her head as her fingers tangle in the laces of his trousers. He shudders as she pauses long enough to cup him through the soft leather, squeezing lightly where he is straining the fabric, already hard and ready for her. _'How long has he been thinking of this?'_ In retaliation, he drops his head to her neck and _bites_ , bruising the skin of her throat.  
  
"Off," she hisses, accidentally scratching the skin of his belly as she struggles to pull his trousers down his slim hips, leaving red lines marked across the warm flesh. It burns her to see it, her lines on him, has her squeezing her legs together in her need, trying to ease the growing ache between her thighs as he moans. If this is their last night together, then by the Maker, _she will have him_.  
  
His attention drifts away from her neck, turns towards her breasts, distracting her from her goal of removing his last item of clothing as quickly as possible. She whimpers as his warm mouth seals over the tip of her left breast, one hand attending to its twin. His stubble rasps deliciously on the sensitive skin. His tongue swipes left, right, before he sucks hard and she sees spots, pleasure sparking red-hot along the edges of her mind. The world shifts, and she realizes he has pushed her down onto the bed before tugging his breeches down and off. He looms over her, all muscle and bare, golden skin lit by the fire.  
  
His eyes are oddly vulnerable.  
  
"Tell me you want this," Cullen rasps, hands hovering over her. He _wants_ her. She can see it— he's practically trembling, cock fully erect. The flush she's always adored on his pale skin trails down from his cheeks, coloring his neck and chest. And yet he still asks. Her heart swells, breaks, simultaneous and painful.  
  
She loves this man.  
  
"I... I'll go, if you want me to." He closes his eyes, jaw clenching. "But if you can give me one last night, I'll... I w-won't..."  
  
"Cullen." She's up instantly on her knees, rising to cradle his face in her hands. His eyes open and he is so utterly broken and _resigned_ , fully expecting and accepting that she will send him away. "No, Cullen, please." He's repeating her words as she kisses him again, a quiet, _'please, please, please,'_ whispered against her lips. She isn't sure how to fix this, how to _tell_ him.  
  
She'll just have to show him instead.  
  
"I need you, Cullen." Her hands curl tighter in his hair, fingers trailing across his scalp in the way that has never failed to rile him.  
  
"Maker, forgive me for this," he breathes, and then he's pressing her down into the bed, rolling his hips against her and chasing her mouth with his, a sigh escaping them both as he settles his weight on her. His strong arms curl around her, one hand twining in her hair, the other gripping her hip as her legs lift to wrap around his waist. Another roll of his hips grinds his length along her soaking folds and she gasps as he groans, tearing his mouth from hers to bury his face against her throat.  
  
She is writhing, rocking up, desperate for him, sheer need burning all other thoughts from her mind. Fingers of one hand curled around the back of his neck, feeling the sweat beginning to slick his skin, she drops the other hand to grip him where he is grinding against her, shifts for the right angle, and then, abruptly, he is sliding home. Their moans echo in the empty room.  
  
"Gwen, I— _Maker_ , you're wet. So good." Cullen thrusts, the movement smooth enough to have her seeing stars, throwing her head back against the pillows as he begins to set a fast rhythm. Neither of them will last long at this rate, not when they need each other this badly. He fumbles hot, open-mouthed kisses along her throat as she drags her nails down the scarred back that flexes and shifts, muscles rolling under the skin with each movement.  
  
"Cullen, I need—" and he drops a hand between them, searching and finding her clit with a familiarity that speaks of long nights spent together. Just the right pressure, he drags his fingers across, circles her, whispers her name, and her orgasm is unfurling under her skin, rolling outwards in waves of heat that have her arching, _screaming_ his name.  
  
He rolls against her, the clenching of her body around him throwing his rhythm off until he is thrusting wildly. She manages to refocus on him as she comes down from her high, yielding easily as he hitches her higher. His eyes are glassy when she locks her gaze with his, his lips wet and parted as he races towards his own end. "Come for me, Cullen," she pleads. His eyes flick downwards and she feels him shiver.  
  
Instinct guiding her, she catches one of his hands, guides it to her belly and lets it rest. It takes a moment for realization, remembrance, to hit him.  
  
His climax takes him by surprise, a strangled shout leaving him as he strains, grinds, gasps into her open mouth. She strokes her fingers soothingly through his hair, murmurs, _'I'm sorry, I love you, I'm so sorry,'_ against his skin until his shuddering eases and he collapses on top of her. Cullen barely manages to brace one arm in time to stop his full weight from crushing her.  
  
Eventually, their breathing starts to regain a normal pattern and he slides out of her with a sigh. She misses the feel of him immediately, the emptiness made worse as he moves to stand. "If you want me to go—"  
  
"No!" Guinevere catches his arm. She will _not_ make this mistake twice. "Please stay, Cullen."

He closes his eyes, hand twisting to lace his fingers with hers, some hidden tension in him easing. "Always," Cullen sighs. He settles back down, rolls to his side and pulls her tight against his front. She buries her face against his neck, basking in his scent and his affection as he wraps his arms around her, nuzzles her hair.  
  
"Was it something I did?" She doesn't even realize she's dozed off until his voice startles her awake; her tiredness, it seems, has equally escaped her notice. It's only now that things are right again that needs like _food_ and _sleep_ begin cross her mind.

Except things _aren't_ right; not yet, because there is an old hurt, a familiar insecurity in his voice and _she_ put it there. Guinevere's determined to fix it.  
  
She lifts her head up, rests it on the pillow next to him. She catches his eyes with hers, watches him struggle to meet her gaze. "No, Cullen," she says, speaking carefully. She's got to do it _right_ this time: no blame, no excuses. "It wasn't anything you did."  
  
"I know I don't have anything to offer you—" He tries to duck his head but her hand under his chin stops him.  
  
"I was afraid," she confesses. She holds up a finger when he opens his mouth to interrupt. "Not of you! Never of you, Cullen. Of me, maybe. Or... what we were doing. I don't..." his hand sweeps soothing patterns up and down her spine. "At first, I was just waiting for the right moment. I was _trying_ to be romantic."  
  
Cullen snorts and she rolls her eyes, poking him in the chest. "You think you're the _only_ one who likes to be romantic? I could have gotten candles and flowers, seduced you into bed and—"  
  
" _Guinevere_ ," his voice is fondly exasperated.  
  
"Alright," she concedes. "So the plan wasn't perfect. It could have worked, though. But then Corypheus just... happened." His arms tighten around her before she continues. "I was afraid I'd... I couldn't stand the thought of being trapped again. Of having to stop and let other people do things I should be doing."  
  
"Of not being allowed to help," Cullen says. She can see the gears in his mind turning, processing her reasoning.  
  
"Yes." She shakes her head. "I needed to be out there. I couldn't just leave it to anyone else; not when I'm the Inquisitor. I was afraid, Cullen. And I'm sorry. I hurt you without meaning to, but I did."  
  
"You did," he says. Even though she knew it, it still stings to hear. She files the feeling away, a reminder of what happens when they don't communicate. "And I hurt you as well. We've made a right mess of things, haven't we?" The quirk of his lips is bitter, sharp around the edges. "But I think what matters is what we're going to do now."  
  
"Ever the strategic mind, looking forward," she teases lightly. He smiles at her, and _that_ is a true one, a swift, fleeting thing that soothes some of the lingering ache inside her.  
  
"I'd like to help, if you... that is, if you'd allow me to be here with you. For this. But I need you to tell me now if you... if you'd rather I wasn't."  
  
"Oh, Cullen," she sighs, leaning up to kiss the tip of his nose. His eyes crinkle at the corners at her reassurance. She does it again, just to hear him chuckle. "I want you here. I'm fairly certain I _need_ you here, actually. You won't get away that easily."  
  
He huffs, puts on a fake scowl. "I should hope not, after all the work you put into seducing me."  
  
They settle down again, listening to the crackle of the fire and the breeze rustling the trees below her window. One of his hands slides down between them, settling against her belly. "I still can't believe it," Cullen whispers, sounding deliriously awestruck. "Our child..."  
  
"Are we really ready for this?" It's one of her other fears, one that's been sleeping somewhere deep down inside, eclipsed until now by larger issues. "Us... being parents? I mean, we fought a war and won. Lots of people have done this, right?"  
  
"And you did close the rift, defeated an ancient magister." Cullen yawns, rolls her over so he can curl around her, her back to his chest. He slings an arm comfortably over her waist, laying a palm flat against her stomach. She loves him when he is like this: sleepy and warm and affectionate. "Compared to _that_ , this should be simple."  
  
Two days later, with Cullen holding her hair away from her face as she vomits into a chamber pot, she thinks that _simpler_ does not mean _easier_.


	2. In Which The Logistical Problems Become Apparent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which announcements are made, dracolisks are assholes, Cullen is a sweetheart, and Guinevere deals with the logistical nightmares of being a pregnant Inquisitor.
> 
> No smut in this chapter. More language, though. 
> 
> Damn, this got long. Hold on to your butts!

After another _week_ of debate, her and Cullen decide, together, that they'll announce the news of Guinevere's pregnancy to the advisors and Cassandra in the War Room.

The irony doesn't escape her.

Guinevere doesn't say a word as everyone filters in, her heart beating a little faster each time the door opened. Cassandra raises a brow when she enters the room but takes a position at the table without comment. Leliana, sporting a tiny smirk that would be out of place in a chantry, isn't wearing any marks signifying her status as Divine, which strikes Guinevere as equal parts strange and comforting. Leliana is making a point to be here as an _advisor_ and not a holy figure. Josephine fills the room with easy chatter, talking about this and that and marking things down on her tablet.

Cullen, for his part, remains at her side, which helps calm the fluttering sensation in her stomach. He'll stay beside her until she makes her announcement, after which time he'll move to his usual place beside Leliana. It's a message, and a gesture of support, for her: _'I am here for you, and you can trust me to be the Commander when required_.' He catches her eye, tilts his head lightly in an _'after you’_ gesture. This close to him, she can read the tension in his body: lightly flushed cheeks, his weight shifting from foot to foot. His hands tighten and relax systematically on his hilt. And yet his amber eyes are sparkling, lips pressed tight to prevent a smile. Despite his anxiety, he is... _happy_.

He sways just a little, enough to brush shoulders with her, and the show of affection warms her down to her toes.

Guinevere takes a deep breath.

Leliana beats her to the punch. "Congratulations," the spymaster says. "I was wondering when you would tell him. The sooner the better, of course. More time for matters such as these is always helpful."

"What matters?" Josephine narrows her eyes as she glances up from her tablet, gaze darting between Leliana and Guinevere, who lets out a groan.

"You can't tell me you _knew_." Guinevere throws up her hands.

"She couldn't possibly—" Cullen sputters.

"Tell Cullen what? _"_ Josephine says curiously.

" _Enough_!" The sharp word silences the room. Cassandra crosses her arms and Guinevere wonders how well the Seeker's stern glare works on children. "I believe the Inquisitor was trying to tell us something."

"I guess since Leliana _already knows_ ," she says, the spymaster's sly smile leaves no doubt in Guinevere's mind, "it's just an announcement for the rest of you. I'm, ah..." She swallows, Cullen warm and steady beside her. "I'm pregnant."

"You are _not!_ " There's disbelief in Cassandra's voice, her eyes wide, but Josephine is already squealing, flying around the table to embrace Guinevere. Guinevere catches Cullen's grin over Josephine's shoulder, mouths, _'You're next!'_. The diplomat is practically vibrating with joy. Releasing Guinevere, she hurries over to Cullen, tugging him down so she can kiss his flushed cheeks. Through it all, Josephine never stops talking.

"Oh, congratulations, congratulations! Ah! The things we must do! A shower, of course, one for friends, perhaps one-hundred at most, and then, a more official party for the nobles. King Alistair and Queen Ophelia will of course be invited, and then there's the changes that will need to be made to your room! Cribs of neutral colors..."

Guinevere snags Josephine's arm to keep her from sweeping out of the room, but she is grinning at the Antivan woman's enthusiasm. "Before you go planning every week of my pregnancy, Josie, there's a few more things to discuss."

"Ah, of course." She flushes, rose tinting her cheeks as she tucks a dark strand of hair behind her ear. "Forgive me, Inquisitor. Babies are such _fun_ to plan for."

Leliana is next. Her hug is soft and careful. Guinevere thinks it's the most affectionate she's ever seen her spymaster. "I am very happy for you, Inquisitor," she whispers. "You can trust that my resources will always be at your disposal, and the disposal of your little one."

"Thank you, Leliana," Guinevere murmurs back, feeling a surge of affection for this quiet woman.

Then it is Cassandra's turn. "Inquisitor," Cassandra says firmly, looking very out of place. Her hands tug at an imaginary wrinkle in her clothing. "You and Cullen have my congratulations." She hesitates, unsure, before offering a hand. Guinevere rolls her eyes and uses the woman's proffered hand to pull her into a hug. Cassandra goes stiff at the embrace before relaxing. The hug turns bone-crushing when the Seeker finally disregards the others watching and allows herself a moment of unrestrained happiness.

There is a sniffle. Guinevere, still crushed tight in Cassandra's arms, whispers quietly, "Are you crying?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Cassandra grouses, but when she pulls away, there is a telltale gleam in her eyes. "I am happy for the both of you."

_'Cassandra: the closet romantic.'_

"Well, do go on, Commander." Josephine grins.

"The Inquisitor as well," Leliana says, tone coy. "I do believe they have yet to congratulate each other."

Cassandra snorts, but Guinevere ignores them as she catches Cullen's eye. His cheeks are the loveliest shade of red when he pulls her close. Her arms wrap around his waist without hesitation, and she buries her nose in the fur of his collar. "Congratulations," she whispers.

His mouth brushes her ear; she can feel his smile against her skin. "And you as well, Gwen."

"Hardly a proper congratulations," Josephine tuts.

"Such shy lovers; aren't they adorable?" Leliana says.

The two advisors are tittering, and Cassandra's sound of disgust is loud enough to startle a robin dozing just outside the window. "The lot of you," Cullen growls, but he lifts Guinevere's head anyway, and she is grinning as he kisses her firmly on the mouth. She feels him startle when she swipes her tongue across his sealed lips, Cullen not expecting it with the others watching. A quiet growl rumbles through him, so low only she can hear it, before he parts from her.

Cassandra's sigh has Guinevere and Josephine giggling, and the Seeker's flushed cheeks and defensive, _"I was annoyed. It is disgustingly romantic!_ " only make them laugh harder. Cullen rolls his eyes, moving around the table and clearing his throat.

" I believe we had matters to attend to, Inquisitor?" And with his use of her title, the tone is set.

"Let's get to work then, shall we?" Guinevere agrees.

* * *

 

Three hours later, they've hit a snag.

"I'm telling you, if I can't go more than a week's travel distance on foot, the number of rifts I close is going to be _very_ small indeed." Guinevere drums her fingers on the map. "I'll be limited to Crestwood or the Emprise. Two weeks by foot gives me plenty of space to work with, and I _will_ be on horseback. I could get as far as the Fallow Mire. It's the first trimester—the only time I have to get things done."

"Absolutely not. There are more than enough troubles in the Emprise alone to keep you busy, Inquisitor, and if you _lose_ your horse, being a week's travel from Skyhold will be very valuable indeed." Cullen frowns at her, but she doesn't take it personally. They've always worked to maintain a sense of professionalism in the War Room, though a quiet part of her does wonder if his personal stake in this is driving him to extra caution. "Two weeks travel is too far. Should something go wrong—"

"Perhaps a compromise could be reached," Cassandra says, pinching the bridge of her nose. They've already settled on other details: food changes, the official announcement of the impending birth, diplomatic notices, Leliana's blessing as Divine, and a list of potential healers to see Guinevere through the pregnancy. They've also roughly estimated when her traveling will end: sometime in the fourth month, though Guinevere is determined to work as long as possible. It might be unrealistic, but there's still so much to _do_.

The idea of leaving these things for someone else to deal with while she just...

Posture stiff, she examines the map again, focus jumping from marker to marker. She takes note of the known locations of rifts and red templar camps, still popping up like daisies. There's at least one, possibly _two,_ dragons in the Emprise across a recently repaired bridge in the area.

"You will become more easily tired as the weeks lead on, your Worship. Pregnancy _is_ hard on the body. I believe Cullen has a point," Josephine says. Guinevere raises a brow, intrigued at the woman's entrance into this particular war-zone, considering she's been quiet for most of the argument.

"It is _also_ true," Josephine continues, "that there are tasks which only you may accomplish. Consider eleven days."

Cullen and Guinevere glance at each other. She sees him swallow, and she struggles to stop her nails from biting into her palm. It's a good compromise; it doesn't mean they've got to like it.

"I have been examining the distances." Josephine gestures to her notes with her quill and Guinevere realizes the woman's been busy formulating a plan while everyone else argued. "It will give you access to the Storm Coast, and the Emerald Graves, Inquisitor. You can take extra horses to leave at our camps so that, should worst come to worst and something happens to your mount, you will have another to ride back with. A fair trade, I believe. Are we agreed?"

Guinevere chews on the inside of her lip. "And the rifts farther out?" she says hesitantly.

"With Corypheus defeated, we have men to spare. They can monitor rift activity in the outer regions," Cullen says fervently.

"Or even my scouts," Leliana adds. "They are already searching for red templar encampments. It is a small enough matter to have them mark down any new rifts they find."

"Alright," Guinevere concedes, to Cullen's relief. "But I don't want any extra men with me. They need to know I'm still capable of looking after myself."

"Excellent!" Josephine beams. "Now, about the colors for the nursery..."

* * *

 

The rest of the meeting ends without further argument. Her inability to travel further still nags at her, but then again, an injury as far out as the Hissing Wastes had been hard enough to deal with when she'd had Solas to drag along. With no proper healer amongst her inner circle now, the risk rose exponentially. As she climbs up the stairs to her room, she finds herself wishing, not for the first time, that she'd developed a knack for healing. Dorian is almost as useless, his talent lying in potions and raising dead things. _'Dead things... Andraste's ass.'_

The nausea returns full force. She takes the stairs at a run, throws open the door to her room and rushes to the clean bin in the corner. Guinevere retches violently, losing what little breakfast she'd managed to keep down that morning. She doesn't hear Cullen enter, but it's not long before there is a cool rag on the back of her neck. One of his hands sweeps soothingly over the line of her spine.

"Sorry about—" She gags one last time, though there is no food left in her belly to lose. "—arguing. Just hate being stuck."

"It's an understandable concern," he admits, pausing to retrieve the glass of water on the nightstand and handing it to her when she lifts her head. She rinses, spits into the bin, and finally leans back with a sigh. She wrinkles her nose when he kisses her on the forehead. Her skin must be sticky with sweat, but it doesn't appear to bother him. "If it will ease your mind, I'll choose the men for the Wastes and the Western Approach personally. Let us help you, Gwen. You'll still be fighting; just not quite so far away."

She leans into him, dropping her head to his shoulder to hide her face, feels his arms come up to wrap around her. "I suppose it's no good having an army if you don't let them do anything," she says grudgingly. His only answer is a rumble of laughter.

* * *

 

She tells her friends personally. _That_ ends up being an enlightening week. A few of them, like Iron Bull, already know about her little 'secret'. _'Maker's blighted ass, it's amazing anyone trusts me with anything.'_

"Ben-Hassrath, remember?" Iron Bull claps one massive hand on her back as soon as she informs him of the news. "You kept a pretty good face for someone who's not trained, but I've known for weeks now." A slow grin creeps across his face. "Also, Dorian can never keep his mouth shut."

"I'm going to kill him," she mutters, already contemplating just how _painful_ her revenge will be.

"Don't worry about it, boss. Just a little confirmation. You can't blame him for being... chatty." The Qunari waggles his eyebrows. "No secret is safe from me."

"I suppose you had to torture it out of him?"

"Not... _exactly_." He winks at her.

* * *

 

It makes sense that Cole knows.

" _Quiet little growing thing, like a flower, but it doesn't bloom the same, need to hide it so if it wilts, he won't see it; can't hurt him again._ " Cole tilts his head. "I'm glad you told me, even though I knew. I couldn't say anything, because it would hurt you or Cullen, and I don't want that. Now that you know I know, and Cullen knows, I can help." He fiddles with his shirt. "Can I hug you?"

She can't help but laugh. "Yes, Cole, you can hug me." And he hugs just right, just the right pressure with a little sway to it, bony arms and jutting angles somehow never poking or prodding.

"I'm so happy for you," he whispers. " _Never thought he'd have it, little bits of blue lingering, still all around even though he stopped. In his dreams, taking, stealing, he's meant to be alone, but she's here, and stays, and now there's more, not just her hand but a tiny one, too_. He's also really happy, even more than me. And I am very happy."

She clenches her fingers in Cole's shirt, but he just hums a tune, rocking gently while Guinevere's tears dampen the fabric.

* * *

 

The others, at least, are surprised, which soothes her pride.

"Well, I mean, I guess tha's great fun, innit? But you're gonna get all round and kinda' big." Sera frowns, eyes Gwen's chest speculatively. "Then again, 'spose it ain't all bad. Your tits are gonna look even more fantastic. That'll make your Cully-Wully happy."

Guinevere rolls her eyes. "Thank you, Sera. That was _absolutely_ what I was worried about. 'I'm going to swell up like a balloon, but at least my _tits_ will be alright!'"

"Well, it's true," Sera says, all indignation. "And you don't have to worry about the little Quiz knowin' who's whatsits. I'll make sure they knows people."

* * *

 

Vivienne immediately ordains herself as Guinevere's maternity wardrobe expert. "I'll have some robes brought in from Val Royeaux immediately. We should be able to get rough estimates of sizes; with some alterations for each month, they will work splendidly."

Guinevere blinks. "I... hadn't even thought of that yet." With so many other things on her mind, she'd barely given thought to what she'd do when the pregnancy forced her from the field, much less her clothing situation. Oh, there were distant musings on the child's _arrival_. Bassinets and cribs and rockers, ordered by Josephine, were already being brought in from Orlais to await Cullen and Guinevere's approval. This, though? This was about _her._

"Be grateful you're not a warrior, my dear. It would be much more difficult to have a suit of armor made than a set of battle robes. I assume you'll be on the field for as long as possible?"

The total absence of judgment makes Guinevere pause. "You don't object to me fighting while pregnant?"

"Provided you're not reckless, why would I? Women around Thedas give birth every day. Some work up until the day the child arrives. Whether or not you do is irrelevant." Vivienne smiles boldly. "You are _capable._ Never let anyone tell you otherwise, darling."

"Thank you, Vivienne," she says, clasping the woman's arms in hers. She should have known that if anyone would understand, it would be Vivienne.

"You are very welcome," Vivienne says fondly. "For what it's worth, I'm sure you'll make excellent parents. Now, I think we'll add a bit more support around the chest. I imagine your breasts have begun to ache. About the fabric choices..."

* * *

 

Blackwall is... well, Blackwall.

He blinks at her, squints his eyes, then nods firmly. _'Did he really just process it that quickly?'_ "Good for you and Cullen. The babe will be a strong one, I'm certain. Between you and the Commander, and all of us, it'll be the safest child in all of Thedas." He scratches at his beard thoughtfully. "I should start on another rocking animal. A lion, maybe..."

And that's that.

* * *

 

Varric, after the traditional round of congratulations and a promise to send a celebratory bottle of ale to Cullen's office, begins crafting a story immediately.

"I'll have to add dragons somewhere. Readers _love_ a good dragon. Maybe you slaying a horde of monsters somewhere while 'round with child'." She wrinkles her nose and he shrugs. "I'll take care of the wording in editing."

"I suppose all those dragons Hawke fought were just... embellishments?" Her eyes twinkle.

He waggles a finger at her. "An author _never_ tells..." Varric's grin gets bigger. "Hawke and Broody are going to _love_ this one."

* * *

 

Her rough estimate puts her somewhere around seven weeks. It takes Guinevere half that long to decide the term 'morning sickness' is a lie. It doesn't seem to matter if it's morning, or afternoon, or evening, or that she's just eaten _two hours ago_.

The third morning in a row she has to leave the dining hall, unable to cope with the heavy smells of roasted meats and strongly-scented cheeses, Cullen takes action.

"This is ridiculous." He frowns. They're standing in his office. She nibbles on dry crackers as she watches the men in the training ring sparring.

"I'm not sure what we can do about it though," she says mildly. "Eating a bit of something is better than eating nothing."

"Something can _always_ be done," he says fiercely. "I'll not have you starving. You leave this to me." And with that, he's snatching up two books off his shelf. Her brows furrow in confusion as he strides out of the room with a clear purpose, leaving her standing alone in his office, confused and amused in equal parts. _'That man..._ '

Guinevere spends the rest of the day preparing for her upcoming journey to the Emerald Graves. It's one of the furthest locations she'll be traveling to while pregnant and she wants to scratch it off as soon as possible. If things go well, it'll take her a little less than a week to arrive, leaving more than enough time to deal with any problems.

Hours later, she marches, hungry and tired, back up to her room. She hasn't seen Cullen since he'd left that morning—hasn't even had time to go and look for him. When she opens the door, however, she can't help but smile at the sight that greets her. "Quite the bold man, aren't you? Sneaking into the Inquisitor's rooms at all hours. How _scandalous_."

Cullen starts where he's been fiddling with something on her desk. When he turns to face her, she notices little bits of white dusted along his tunic, as well as across his throat and cheeks. Guinevere saunters over, lifting a finger to trail it through the powder on his skin. "What've you been up to, Commander?"

His cheeks flush pink, but she can tell he's pleased with himself. "See for yourself," he says, stepping away and gesturing towards her desk.

On her desk is a long sampling tray, a dazzling array of foods laid out: everything from small, light pastries with almonds to dried fruits and pale strips of meat laid atop toasted breads. She inhales, and is pleasantly surprised to find the smells faint and hard to detect. She feels her mouth water. "Cullen, this is—"

"I tried to put together a wide variety," he blurts out. "Hopefully there's a few things here you'll like. The books said lighter foods without strong smells were more likely to, ah, stay down." Cullen rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat. "I thought perhaps you could try some of these; we might be able to find something you can eat throughout the day."

A little shiver of emotion goes through her and she has to blink back tears. _'Damn mood swings'_. She reaches up to stroke his jaw, watches his eyes half close. "What did I do to deserve you?" She tilts her head.

"It was the least I could do," he says, not resisting when she hooks her fingers into his shirt, tugging him towards her. He exhales quietly through his nose as her mouth meets his, and he sidles closer. His arms slide around her waist, and she enjoys the feel and taste of his soft lips against hers as he shifts for a better angle. Guinevere opens her mouth to him, is rewarded with a quick swipe of his tongue across her palate before he pulls away with a chuckle. The flush on his cheeks now has nothing to do with embarrassment. Part of her is grateful when he withdraws: between the morning sickness and her aching, well, _everything_ , she isn't exactly in the mood for anything more than a kiss.

"I do believe we have other matters to attend to." He smiles, and a moment later, he's holding a pastry up to her mouth. She laughs at the determined cant of his mouth, takes a bite, almost rolls her eyes back in pleasure. Light and flaky, with no heavy tastes, there is a slight crunch provided by the almonds. A hint of sugar lingers on her tongue.

"Cullen, this is amazing." She swallows, goes for another bite but he pulls his hand back, eyes crinkling at the corner when she frowns. "I didn't know you could cook."

"It's... something I've picked up over the years." He sets the pastry down, lifts what looks like a tiny cup of soup for her approval. "Now, this one next."

* * *

 

They've dealt with the food. They've hammered out, roughly, when she'll stop traveling. Cullen, after devouring what few books Skyhold had on pregnancy, has already started encouraging her to sleep on her left side. He sleeps on his back so she can curl around him comfortably. Robes are coming in from Val Royeaux. Maker's breath, her and Cullen had already gone through _swatches_ for baby clothes and bedding.

But, as was quickly becoming apparent, there were all sorts of logistical problems that came with being a pregnant _Inquisitor_.

As she stands outside the stables with Master Dennet, those logistical problems are taking the form of her mount—her mount which refused to let her ride, balking at her every attempt to climb up. The horsemaster was frowning, rubbing at his chin, as stumped as she was.

Guinevere approaches the dracolisk again. One yellow, reptilian eye rolled to follow her, but otherwise he stands quietly. Scratching him gently behind the crown of spines atop his head, she listens to the pleased hiss that rasps from his throat like an angry serpent. "What's the matter, Tempest?" She murmurs. She drifts her hands down his dark, leathery neck, moving to the black-and-gold scales along his sides. When he doesn't move, she grasps the saddle on his back to pull herself up.

He lets out an angry screech as he rears, throwing his head. As soon as she backs away, he settles again. "Not sure that went any different than the last try," Dennet says, brow furrowed as he takes the reptile's bridle. "We've checked his saddle three times; ain't no burrs or catches."

"I can't go without a mount," Guinevere grumbles, pinching the bridge of her nose. She can feel a headache coming on and it's the _last_ thing she needs.

"He doesn't let you ride because he doesn't _want_ more than one. He likes you, but the other hasn't done anything for him yet. He's... too proud to carry both of you."

Waving Dennet away, she turned to Cole. He blinks at her owlishly. "None of the ones like him will carry more than one; they won't carry anyone they don't know."

Guinevere growls, kicking at a bucket beside the stable entrance. The sharp crack of impact as it hits the wall helps cool her anger a little. Then she groans, passing a hand over her face. She'd been hoping for the smooth, ground-eating lope of the dracolisk to save time, but it seemed that wasn't going to be an option.

" _Ten, nine, eight, counting always helps, anger melting, why couldn't this be easy? Too long, always too long._ "

"I guess I could take one of the horses." She scrubs a hand through her hair.

"No," Cole says. "They won't understand. The horses will _carry_ you, but they won't look _after_ you. Can I show you?"

"Cole, is this really—"

"Please?" His blue eyes are huge and pleading. It's impossible to resist.

"Alright," she sighs, letting Cole take her by the hand. They passed stall after stall, the strong smell making her stomach roil, before eventually leaving the stables altogether, heading for the paddocks. He finally halts in front of a field of grazing harts: a swath of brilliant, gem-like colors scattered across the pale and green of snow and grass.

"I talked with them. One of them said he'd be careful when he carried you." Cole waves at the harts. "Hello! Yes, um, could you come over here please? Not all of you, just the one."

To her amazement, one of the harts breaks away from the herd. He's a lean, elegant creature with a pelt the dusky blue of the evening sky and sharp crimson streaks across his flanks. He carries his crown of horns like a king. She held out a hand as the hart nosed at her sleeve. "Are you sure about this, Cole?" Guinevere says warily. She's not exactly drowning in experience with harts.

"It can't be a horse because they get too nervous, they _run_ too much. They'll know about the baby but they'll only worry about carrying you. I talked to him and he understands." Cole patted the hart's neck. "He'll be careful. He knows you'll need to go fast sometimes, but he'll make sure he steps well and won't run away if he gets scared. He likes looking after people."

"I suppose I don't have much choice, do I?" Guinevere mutters, reaching up to rub the back of her neck. She's a little surprised when she feels sweat gathering on her skin. Is it really that hot?

"He'll help protect you, too. He'll even stop for you—"

Her mouth is watering strangely.

"—when you're going to be sick. _Roiling, churning, why does everything taste funny?_ Like you're about to be right now."

She retches into the grass beside the pen. Cole helpfully interjects her own mental commentary: " _Fucking hell, Maker take this blasted, blighted, shit-sucking, nug-humping sickness. The name is a lie, lie, lie, wicked, false thing, skin the asshole who came up with that name._ Well, that's not very nice. And could they really do that with a goat and an orange?"

* * *

 

It takes a bit longer than a week to reach the camp in the Emerald Graves, what with her needing to stop for certain bodily functions and the occasional bout of vomiting. She'd thought herself used to riding, but even with the hart who, true to Cole's promise, is smooth as satin and careful not to jostle her unnecessarily, her more delicate areas ache as if the hart's been walking _on_ them.

Her companions take it well enough. Dorian chatters away to distract her while Varric weaves stories like thread. Iron Bull takes care of all the heavy lifting, setting up the tents each night. Fortunately, travel food is bland and she's having better luck keeping her food down.

Guinevere's relieved beyond measure when they reach their final destination. As soon as her tent is set up, she's scooting inside and collapsing onto a bedroll, barely remembering to drag her pack with her. She tosses things left and right, fully intending to organize everything once she's feeling a bit more awake. Halfway down, her fingers catch upon a small, wrapped package. Frowning, she tugs it out, squints at the careful, blocky writing on the attached note: _"Thought this might cheer you up. Remember to eat. —C"_

Tugging the package open, she chortles in delight. "Maker bless you, Cullen."

She does not share the almond pastries with her companions.

* * *

 

They end up spending two weeks in the Graves. With the Freemen more entrenched than she'd thought, a nest of red templars that includes not one but _two_ behemoths, and a rift up atop a cliff that takes days to scale, she spends an inordinate amount of time clambering over rocks and hacking through thick brush. She's never been more thankful to be a Knight-Enchanter, the heat and rush of battle forcing her to focus on one thing and one thing only. She even decapitates a great bear.

It does wonders for her mood.

Out here, it doesn't matter if Guinevere's _pregnant_. She has a job to do and she does it _well_. Things are good enough that she decides to stop in the Emprise du Lion on the way back to get a situation report, killing two nugs with one Bull-sized stone. After all, she's only about twelve weeks along. Her nausea is slowly lessening in severity and her confidence is returning.

 _Of course_ , that's when the dragon shows up. She's a beautiful thing, at least: brilliant glacial shades of blue, with black and scarlet spirals of color wrapped around her body like a ribbon. The pale green eyes gleam with a cold fire. Fangs as long as a man, and covered in spikes, she's a formidable foe.

This is unfortunate.

"You had to say it, Varric!" she shouts, rolling as massive silver claws rake the snowy ground she'd been standing on just a moment before. "All your jokes about me fighting dragons while pregnant. Thank you! Did you wish really hard?"

Up on the rocks above the field of battle, safely out of melee range, Varric calls back to her, "Come on, you're barely showing. Not exactly the image I was going for!"

"What do you mean _barely_?" Guinevere snarls, the screech from the dragon rattling her teeth as one of Varric's bolts pierces the beast's snout. "I'm not showing!" Then again, she's been too tired each night to get a good look.

"Do you think we could contemplate her stage of pregnancy when we're _not_ being attacked by an angry dragon?" A ball of fire explodes across the dragon's striped flank and she whirls with a roar to face Dorian, but he's already leaping across the rocks above the field. "I do believe you can consider it distracted, Bull."

Guinevere tunes them out, focusing on slashing at the dragon's weakened back leg as the creature screams in rage. Even with her barrier up, a good kick could easily send her flying. _Those_ bruises would be hard to explain. _'Oh yes, love, I know I said I would be careful, but, you see, this dragon just came out of nowhere...'_

The dragon turns, and she watches the sides heave like mountainous bellows as the dragon draws in a breath. She barely has time to cry a warning before the frost is rolling across the field like a living thing. She dashes to the side, but she's winded already and maybe, just _maybe_ , the pregnancy is starting to slow her down a _little_. The icy wave catches her by one leg, and while the barrier dampens its stronger effects, she still ends up stuck fast, foot and ankle encased in ice.

Guinevere tugs at her leg frantically. She's about ready to jab her arcane blade down and take her chances, but the dragon takes care of it for her.

" _Inquisitor_!"

She tucks instinctively at the warning, shielding her belly, fingers clenching on staff and hilt just before the sweeping tail shatters the ice and sends her tumbling across the snow-covered plain like a toy. Her thoughts scatter and reform with each bounce: _'Hate dragons.'_ Bounce. _'Stupid dragons.'_ Rock. _'Sorry for the rough ride, kid.'_ She eventually comes to a halt, skidding into a snowbank. The object of her disdain, sensing weakness, charges after her like a mabari with a bone, Iron Bull dodging an absent-minded kick from the dragon's back leg. Despite Dorian and Varric's best efforts to distract the behemoth, her focus remains on Guinevere.

She is scrambling to find her staff when the dragon lands, her massive shadow blocking out the sun. Guinevere rolls desperately under the Kaltenzahn's belly, narrowly avoiding the snapping jaws. Grateful she managed to at least hold on to her arcane blade's hilt, she leaps up and whirls, shoving her blade deep into the dragon's back leg. Without time for disgust, she shoves her other arm into one of the many holes they'd gouged into the scaly flesh over the course of the battle, her lip curling at the squelch, arm quickly becoming soaked with hot blood. She finds something solid, not wanting to imagine what. Then she holds on tight and _grinds_ the blade as the dragon begins to thrash, scarlet drops scattering across the snow.

 _'Wait for it..._ '

The head twists to look at her, one emerald eye rolling wildly. She pulls her arm from the dragon and fade-steps forward. Her skin coats in frost as her body leaps through space over the course of a breath, taking careful aim with her blade. When Guinevere reappears, the blade is lodged deep, pierced through the dragon's eye and into her brain. She gives a massive roar before crashing to the ground.

Guinevere's hand probes at her own stomach desperately, searching for any injuries under the snow and robes and stains of blood, but the barrier seems to have protected her. _'All of that and we're ok._ ' She begins to giggle, slightly hysterical, before she swallows it down and does her best to regain her composure. There is a shout, and she turns to see her friends jogging towards her. Iron Bull's teeth flash white as he grins. "Boss, that was _amazing_. And really fucking hot. You've even got its blood on you." He inhales. "Ah, dragon blood. Best fucking smell ever, right?"

Just like that, her mind zeroes in on the scent. Now that she's no longer in danger of being devoured, her body finally allows her to notice the stench of blood and filth on her armor... and her arm, coated in viscera all the way up to her shoulder.

As she is gagging in the snow, the conversation continues unbroken behind her.

"I mean, it's not for everyone, I get it."

"Oaf. Did you _really_ have to remind her how badly it smells? And—wait, are you _actually_ turned on right now?"

"You're not?"

"I think I might cut this part out of the book," Varric mutters.

* * *

 

Fortunately, there's no need to delay the return to Skyhold. There are some new bruises, and her body _aches_ like she's been run over, but she's otherwise uninjured. To Guinevere's relief, there are no marks along her belly. It is, however, during that examination that she realizes Varric was right: she _is_ showing.

It's not noticeable if you don't know to look for it, but it's _there_ —the first visible sign of her pregnancy. She finds herself drumming her fingers on her belly, staring down at the beginning swell. Her heart flutters. Something about the sight of it makes her pregnancy feel _real_ for the first time. Guinevere snorts and drops her shirt to cover her stomach, feeling silly.

"Inquisitor!" The guard outside her tent salutes as she exits. She'd been glad to have someone _else_ keeping an eye out as they slept that night: the benefits of an Inquisition camp. She stretches tall, feels the bones in her spine pop, before dropping her arms, finally noticing the nervous scout standing at attention.

"What is it?" She queries, raising an eyebrow.

"Your Worship!" The scout—no more than a boy, really; he can't have been older than eighteen—offered a clumsy salute. "All relevant updates to the area have been sent off to Skyhold by raven. They should be expecting you when you arrive." Normally, when she's returning to Skyhold, they hand their messages off to her to deliver, but she knows some of them are eager to get out of the cold of the Emprise as soon as possible, though the Fereldens seem right at home.

"Good," Guinevere sighs, visions of a hot bath and a warm bed curling her toes inside her boots; thinks of Cullen, naked, the scar pulling his smirk to just this side of wicked. She can't decide if she'd rather have him on the bed or in the bath. _'Decisions, decisions.'_ Something occurs to her, then, that stops her mind from traveling further down that delicious train of thought. "Wait, all updates?"

"Er, yes, your Worship." He blinks at her, looking confused.

Two long strides and her face is inches from the scout's. She can see the sweat beading on his skin, the flecks of green in his blue eyes. She can almost read his thoughts: _'This is how I'm going to die: strangled by the Herald of Andraste.'_ She stops just short of grabbing him by the collar, just to leave him guessing. "Tell me you did _not_ mention the dragon," she hisses

The scout is shaking, eyes rolling like a skittish horse. "I-I... yes." He's so nervous, he doesn't even add her title. Normally, that would be a relief to her—she's never liked being a holy figure. Now, though, all she can think of is Cullen receiving a letter about her being attacked by a _dragon_ and the way his face would pale, hand crumpling the parchment.

She narrows her eyes and snarls through gritted teeth, "You will tell me _every word_ you sent back."

* * *

 

The ride back to Skyhold is _agonizing_ , but Guinevere tells herself the wait is worse for Cullen. From what she could gather from the scout, the message was specific enough to impress the danger— _"Inquisitor and companions fought and killed one dragon."_ —and disgustingly vague enough to be terrifying— _"Inquisitor injured, but returning to Skyhold."_ Never mind that it was nothing more than bruises and scrapes _._ The guilt gnaws at her gut, even as she tries to reason with herself: _'The dragon attacked us. There wasn't any way to avoid the fight.'_ She just hopes Cullen will see it that way.

The horns sound at Skyhold as her group approaches. The usual crowd gathers to greet her, but Cullen stands at the fore. He is pale and drawn, the stubble heavier than usual, but otherwise, he doesn't look as bad as she'd expected. She throws him a weak smile, but he doesn't return it—his face expressionless, lips pulled tight. Her mount hasn't even fully stopped before he is beside her, grasping at the hart's reins, handing them off, catching her as she slides off with a wince.

He whirls to face the crowd. "Enough gawking!" he barks. He glances back at Guinevere. His eyes have a feverish light in them, and she can't tell if he's angry with her or not. The straining tendons in his neck make her think, _'yes, probably.'_ And they were doing so well, too. "Inquisitor, if I might have a word?" He doesn't wait for a response before he is marching off, trusting her to follow. The crowd parts as people slowly break away to return to their duties. She hears a quiet, _"good luck,"_ from Varric as she scrambles to catch up to her Commander.

He doesn't break stride as he starts up the stairs to his office, but she is _tired_ : she'd been riding hard to reach Skyhold as quickly as possible and her legs are trembling by the time they reach the top of the battlements. "Cullen," she huffs, trying to catch his arm, but he shakes her off. She swallows hard to hide the sting.

"Not here," he says firmly, continuing on until he reaches the door to his office. "Lock the door," he adds once they're inside, not turning to face her until he hears the _click_. When he does finally spin around, he just... stares. Guinevere can see his hands trembling before he drops them to his sword hilt. She swears she can hear the leather of his gloves creak. Now that she is closer, she realizes that he is much worse than she initially thought. He has dark circles under his eyes, bloodshot and bright, and he is _pale_ , far more than usual, almost sickly. She lifts one hand to touch his cheek, drops it before she finishes the movement. His gaze rakes over her.

"They said there was... are you alright?" His voice is nothing but a hoarse rasp.

"Cullen, I'm _fine_. The report was a little—oh!" She doesn't have a chance to finish before he is on her, arms wrapped around her tight as he embraces her.

"Thank the Maker," he whispers, and she feels a shudder rack through him. "They'd said you were injured by a dragon, Gwen, but nothing about your condition or..."

"I'm ok," she says, her own arms twining around him, something inside her slotting back into place. Guinevere holds him just as tight, lets her eyes close. The assurance is just as much for her as it is for him. "I'm ok. We're alright, Cullen." She inhales slowly, takes in the intoxicating scents of leather and fur and musk and metal; feels him let out a slow breath. There is a long moment of peace, full of little touches. He brushes his lips affectionately along her cheek, drops his head to nuzzle at her neck, his breath warm along her skin when she sweeps her own mouth along his jaw. She tries to remember what she was going to tell him, but she is... tired, and the soft, absent-minded kiss on her neck distracts her.

She hums, catches her fingers in his messy curls—and _that_ should have been a dead giveaway about his state of mind; he is always so _picky_ about his hair—and tugs his mouth up to hers. She doesn't mean for it to be anything more than brief, but he sighs happily, kisses her hot and languid, crowding her until she is pinned against the door. He slides a leg between hers and she grunts, the soreness of her long ride lingering. They need to stop before they get carried away; she can't promise she won't fall asleep on him once they get up that ladder. "You will not do this again," he growls, words slipped out between kisses and heated slides of his tongue.

"Cullen," she groans against his lips. He pulls away, eyes closed.

"By Andraste, the things you put me through," Cullen sighs, hand rising to cup her cheek. She strokes his hair sleepily, enjoying the radiating heat of his body.

"Any other time, I'd drag you up the ladder myself, except I'm fairly certain you're the only thing keeping me upright." She's practically reclining against the door, his frame the one thing stopping her from melting into the floor.

"I thought you said you weren't injured," he says, almost accusatory as he sweeps her up into his arms. She allows it, nuzzling into the fur around his neck.

"'M not," she mumbles. "Just tired." He's going... somewhere, and she can't tell if it's towards the ladder or the door because her eyes have already dropped closed. She wonders how he'll get her up to his loft while carrying her. She must have said something because she hears him chuckle, feels a kiss brushed across her brow.

"Go to sleep, Gwen."

And she does.


	3. In Which Lack Of Communication Strikes Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jim's bad timing continues, Cullen is paranoid, worries are dealt with, and someone says 'hello'.
> 
> Some NSFW smut at the beginning. And fluff later. 
> 
> And this prompt is getting away from me. One more chapter after this!

When she wakes up, she's not nauseous. That, in and of itself, is unusual. Sure, her morning sickness has been _retreating_ , beaten back slowly by time and her determination. But she doesn't just feel better. For the first day in months, she feels _good_.

Very good.

Guinevere cracks open one eye. She's in her room, _their_ room; she doesn't quite remember how she got there—has only distant memories of Cullen placing her in the bed, tugging at her armor and pants. She's still wearing her tunic, feels it when she shifts, blinks lazily at the memory of pushing his hands away when he sought to remove it, burrowing under the covers in her determination to sleep _now_. He must have given up and left it.

Pale dawn light streams in from the open windows and balcony doors, dust motes drifting lazily in and out of the shafts of sunlight like tiny dancers. She can hear the distant sounds of Skyhold waking, chattering birds, sees an errant puff of cloud on the horizon. It will be a beautiful day. Not _quite_ as beautiful as her Commander, though.

Laying next to her on his back in a puddle of sunshine, dozing like a cat, Cullen is bathed in streaks of gold. His mess of curls appears almost white in the light, a healthy flush on his cheeks, stubble so thick it's almost a beard. She thanks the Maker he's shirtless, because she _loves_ his skin: warm-looking, scarred, dusted with freckles and fine, golden hair that gets thicker as her eyes travel down his belly until it disappears under the sheet tangled around his hips.

Guinevere licks her lips, a little startled at the surge of want that goes through her at the sight. She's always found him attractive, of course, but it's been months. She just hasn't felt the urge for it: between the nausea and the tiredness, her desire for sex had been thoroughly cowed. But today? Today, she felt good.

Today, she wanted Cullen.

She props her head up on one arm. When he's not troubled by nightmares, he looks so much younger in his sleep: harsh lines softening, muscles relaxing. She starts up high, reaches over to trail her hand lightly through his curls, watching them loop golden and insistent around her fingers. Her hand travels over his jaw, stiff hairs scratching against her skin; draws one finger over his chin and up to his mouth, brushes over the scar. He stirs but doesn't wake, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

Guinevere works her way down further, rubs along his throat and collarbone, runs her nails over his chest and one dark nipple. Cullen makes a quiet sound, shifting, and when she glances down, she can see the effect her touches are having on him. Another curl of heat through her belly has her squeezing her legs together. She drops her mouth to his shoulder, licks at the warm skin lazily as her hand journeys on, scratching through hair and over muscle and scars. She hears a distant moan.

She pauses at his hip bone, at the line of the sheet; she can _see_ his arousal through the thin white fabric. Her fingers curl, nails catching on the skin, as she wars with herself. They've only occasionally done this: woken each other up this way. There's still a lingering doubt in her, a line of her own making that she's hesitant to cross: he needs sleep, gets so little; can she really wake him up because _she_ desires it? He might not even _want_ to—

His hips rock up just a little, seeking friction, waiting for her _hand_ and her teeth dig into his shoulder when she hears him whisper, " _Please_ , Gwen."

Well. That answers that.

"I thought you were asleep," she murmurs, giving in to her greed for his skin now that she has his approval, darting her hand under the sheet. She plays a bit, dragging it out, dancing her fingers around and down as best she can reach, stroking his thighs and back up to his hips and belly. She leaves the sheet where it is, likes the idea of using her sense of touch and her memory of his body.

"I was, mostly," he says, breath catching as her hand finally touches him where he wants, a light brush of fingers around the tip of him. "Then something incredibly _wonderful_ started happening and I found myself wakin—ah!" Her hand wraps around him fully in reward, and she chuckles as his hips jerk in response.

"Flatterer," she sighs.

He whines as her hand sets a lazy rhythm, and she lifts her head again to watch him, watch his face redden as his golden eyes, glassy and half-lidded, lock on her, darting between her face and the obscene movements of her hand under the sheet. "Gwen, you don't, I d-don't expect you to—"

"I want to, Cullen." It takes some stretching, but she strains to kiss him, catches his lower lip between her teeth before he is returning it hungrily, fervently, his body twisting so her fingers can keep hold of him. His moan is answered by her own as she squeezes him. "I feel good, Cullen," she gasps against his mouth, nibbles along his lips and swipes her tongue over his scar as he fists one hand in her long hair. "It's been too long."

"Too long," he agrees, and when her hand twists just right, his eyes roll back, head lolling on the pillows, a groan tearing from his throat. He's keeping up with her now, rocking into her hand, and when her calloused thumb catches, he writhes, bucks, pupils blown so wide and dark the amber's near gone.

It's too much for her.

"Enough!" she hisses, shoving the sheet down and away, exposing him to the cool air and making him shiver. Throwing one leg over him to straddle his waist, one of his hands grasps at her hip, the other reaching up to the ties of her tunic. "Leave it," she gasps, grinding desperately against his hardness, her smalls soaked through.

" _Maker_ , Gwen," he groans, but he does as she asks, palming one of her breasts through the rough fabric of the tunic instead. And _that_ is something else, has her keening, not expecting to feel the heat of his hand so intensely, her breasts almost painfully sensitive. She sees stars, wants him so bad she _hurts_ and how is she this _close_ already, spiraling up so quickly. His hand tightens on her hip and she can read the curl of his lip, the feverish light in his eyes: _'Mine.'_

She's reaching down, they both are, fumbling between them for her smalls, _'I didn't think this through. Shit, should have taken them off, Gwen.'_ At this point, she'd be fine with tearing them, but Cullen catches the edges, slides his fingers inside the fabric and curls them, snarling at the feel of her. She can't help but gasp, "Just move them out of the way, tear them, fuck's sake, Cullen."

And he does, shoves the fabric aside while her hand catches him again, shifts for the right angle when—

"Inquisitor?" There is a knock at the door. Her head snaps up, losing her grip on Cullen, much to his dismay.

"Leave them," Cullen growls, grinding up against her. They've lost the angle but he still slides along her delightfully, making her eyelids flutter shut. She rocks back, and yes, it's a good idea, just let whoever it is leave while they—

The pounding at the door becomes more insistent. "Your Worship? Commander? I'm, er, I'm afraid this is urgent. Sister Leliana said—"

"Andraste's fucking ass!" she spits, sliding off of Cullen and out of bed. The mattress creaks as he rolls after her, but all that matters is this _person_ who won't give her _one_ morning to _fuck her Commander senseless_. Her hands tremble as she strides towards the stairs, barefoot and seething, so wound up she can barely see. Even as she rounds the stairs, Cullen is scrambling, no doubt to pull his trousers back on, and she ignores his frantic whisper of her name.

Guinevere shoves the door open, catches the man's wrist— _'Him again. Damn it, Jim!'_ —as he lifts his hand to knock once more. She tugs him forwards, her teeth bared, and lets out her most threatening hiss: " _What?!_ "

She vaguely realizes what she must look like: hair mussed and tangled out of its usual braid, nothing but Cullen's oversized tunic covering her, just barely hanging to mid-thigh. Her mouth is probably still red from the stubble along his jaw.

She could not care less.

"I, ah..." His blue eyes are wide, a tint of red in his cheeks. His gaze darts behind her and what little blood was left in his face drains. A sudden heat looms at her back, a hot breath stirring her hair.

"You," Cullen says, voice dangerously low, "had better have a very, _very_ good reason for being here."

"Present! I mean, your _presence_ is needed, _required_ , ah, in the War Room. Both, Sister Leliana needed—"

"Enough," Cullen growled. "That will be all."

"But Commander..."

" _Out!_ " he roars. Jim finally took the hint, scampering down the stairs without a backwards glance. Cullen slams the door, leaning against it with a groan. Guinevere can't help herself; she reaches one hand up, squeezing lightly at the back of his neck, pressing along the pressure points.

"I should be doing that for you," he says, his low rumble reigniting the heat in her, flaring like banked coals. He turns, jaw tight in determination, curls his hand around the back of her neck and draws her mouth to his, slicking his tongue against hers. She braces herself on his shoulder when his fingers trail down her side, delving between her legs.

"Cullen," she gasps, fumbling for the laces of his own loosely-tied trousers, but he sidesteps, shifts out of her reach as his hand nudges her smalls aside.

"No time," he murmurs. "Don't concern yourself with me." And she'd argue, but Cullen's slipping two practiced fingers inside her, stealing the words off her tongue. He exhales slowly against her mouth, closes his eyes as he struggles to control himself. The interruption has had less of an effect on _both_ of them than it probably should have and he works her quickly back up towards her peak. Her head drops to his shoulder.

Guinevere grinds desperately, body trembling, crying out when the hand in her hair drops to her breast, sweeps a callused thumb over the tip through the fabric. His teeth catch her ear, a sweet-sharp sting of pain. "Come for me, Gwen," he orders sharply, fingers curling just right—

White at the edge of her vision. Cullen catches her mouth with his, swallows her cry to keep her quiet. He works her gently as the heat rolls through her, murmurs things she can't hear over the roaring in her ears. When she _does_ come to, she's sagging against him, one of his arms around her waist, holding her up. He kisses her hair. "Feel better?"

She mumbles something against his shoulder, muffled by his skin. She narrows her eyes when she glances down, seeing him pressed hard and aroused against the fabric of his trousers. Cullen follows her eyes, hums a note before taking her hand and lifting it to his lips. He brushes a kiss across her knuckles. "This wasn't about me. Now, go get dressed before they send someone else to look for us." He gives her a little nudge with his hip and she sighs theatrically, turning obediently to march up the stairs.

"I'm not done with you yet," she calls over her shoulder. When she glances back, his eyes are following her, amber orbs burning with hunger. He gives her a wolfish grin.

"Neither am I, my love."

Heading down to the War Room, she does indeed feel better.

* * *

 

"I'm afraid it requires your immediate attention, Inquisitor," Josephine sighs. "I know you wished to rest a few days, but the Avaar have been somewhat... insistent."

"Rest?" Cullen growled. "She was thrown about by a dragon! She needs more—"

"I am well aware of your concerns, Commander," Josephine says sharply, pursing her lips. "But we all know we are working within a limited window of time in which she may travel. This will only—"

"How big is the rift, Josephine?" Guinevere interrupts the argument before it can escalate. Things have been going well; she'd like to keep it that way.

"Not too large, fortunately. But its location near one of our camps and to the south of the Avaar stronghold is... problematic."

"My scouts estimate little trouble for you to close it," Leliana adds. "It is fairly standard, as far as we can tell. It should be an easy enough task."

"Right," Guinevere says, leaning over the map. She ignores the hard stare from Cullen. Josephine's right: her time is getting short—she's just into the fourth month and she's begun to show. She'll need to be quick about this."This doesn't need to be complicated. Get down to Frostback Basin, close the rift, come right back." She taps the mark for the Basin. "Maybe ten days travel; nine if we're lucky."

"I don't like this." Cullen shakes his head. "At least take some men with you to hold the demons back while you close it."

"They'll slow us down," she says absently, tracing a finger along her route. "We're used to closing rifts; I don't need complications."

"But—"

"No." She glances up, locks eyes with Cullen. For a long moment, they stare, storm-green and amber, a contest of wills, before he drops his eyes. A muscle in his cheek jumps as he clenches his jaw.

"As you wish, Inquisitor."

"I would recommend setting out tomorrow morning, as soon as possible," Josephine says gently, sharing a knowing look with Leliana. "The sooner you leave, the sooner you return."

* * *

 

"You _do_ need the practice, my dear," Dorian chides. Guinevere frowns at him as they stand near the market stalls in the courtyard before she goes back to poking through the staff blades.

"I'm a Knight-Enchanter, Dorian," she reminds him. "Hitting things from up close is what I _do_."

"Melee range is all fine and well, if you like being covered in _blood_ , I suppose. But the fact remains that you'll get less winded if you aren't leaping around and waving your blade like a madwoman." He brushes imaginary dust off his shoulder. "You'll stay cleaner, as well. You'll be happier, Cullen will be happier, and you'll improve your... aiming skills."

She grimaces. He's not _wrong_. Her aim is rather touchy; there was a reason she'd done so well with an arcane blade. Even before falling out of the Fade, Guinevere hadn't been the best at the more delicate forms of magic, one of her instructors only half-joking when he claimed she'd be more likely to burn a _Tower_ down than a demon inside it.

Guinevere gestures to one of the blades, the Orlesian merchant hurrying to wrap it, before she turns back to Dorian. "I'll consider it."

* * *

 

That evening, Guinevere knocks hesitantly at Cullen's office door. There's muttering on the other side before it opens. Cullen's scowl instantly morphs into something a little softer. "Guinevere. I didn't expect to see you here." His use of her full name doesn't go unnoticed.

She slips past him, the _click_ of the door as Cullen shuts it behind her putting her at ease. There's a _separation_ there, as if the door closing is the line between professional and personal. She waits for him to turn before she steps into his space, lifting a hand to his jaw. He's still humming with tension. "Talk to me," she orders, softening the command with a kiss to his chin. He lets out a sigh.

"I don't like it." His jaw works, teeth grinding hard enough she can feel the movement through the skin of his cheek. "You could have been killed by that dragon; the both of you. I read the full report—you were lucky to come back with no more than bruises. And _now,_ having been back less than two days, you're already leaving again."

He lifts one gloved hand to her neck, pulls her closer. Cullen rests his forehead against hers, his eyes closed. Guinevere strokes her fingers lightly through his hair. "We knew this would happen," she whispers.

"I know."

"I _have_ to go. Anything else I might be able to leave, but a rift so close to an encampment..."

There is a long pause before he lets out a breath, curling his arms around her tighter. "I know," he repeats. "Just... promise me you'll be careful? I can't—"

"Hey, hey." Her hand leaves his hair to stroke a thumb along his cheek. His eyes open, watching her closely. "I thought we went over this? I have luck, remember?" She smiles, leans forward to kiss him. It's affectionate and warm: a promise. She can feel the tension drain bit by bit from him. When she judges him relaxed, she sidles closer, pressing her body against his just to hear the pleased rumble in his chest. His desire for affection and touch in private is something she loves about him.

"You know," she murmurs. "We _were_ interrupted earlier." His hand slides up into her hair thoughtfully, and she hides a coy smile in the fur at his shoulder.

"A travesty," he agrees solemnly, lips twitching as he fought to hide a smile.

"Hm, and what would you say if I ordered my Commander to see to such problems _immediately_?"

"I don't think he'd dare to disagree, Inquisitor." He catches her mouth in a hungry kiss, one she returns eagerly, before he's spinning her by the shoulders. "Up the ladder you go, then."

She huffs indignantly, lifts her chin as she walks, darting away with a laugh as Cullen gives her a slap on the ass to hurry her along. She's halfway up to his loft before she pauses to look back. He's still standing at the bottom of the ladder, hand on his chin, blatantly eyeing the curve of her rear. He takes his time before his gaze slides up to her face, and by the time he does, her cheeks are hot, warmth flooding her limbs. The predatory hunger in his eyes is back, and he licks his lips.

"Are you coming up or not?" she scowls, trying to hide the way her legs tremble on the rungs.

"In a moment. I'm... enjoying the view." His smirk is wicked, has her cursing him as she clambers up the last few bars. A plan for revenge, one that will leave _both_ of them delighted, solidifies in her mind.

"Do us both a favor and lock the door," she calls, hurriedly tugging her tunic and loose trousers off; she has to work quickly. The stride of his boots across the floor and the clank of the door locking spurs her on. Her breast band and smalls come off next.

Hearing him approach the ladder again, she kneels by the opening in the floor of the loft and leans out just far enough to expose the tops of her breasts to him where he stands at the bottom. His eyes drop to the pale skin, distracted, as she knew he'd be. The look on his face when her bundled smalls land on his head is priceless.

Cullen tugs them off, dangles them by one finger as he raises an eyebrow at her. His nostrils flare, taking in the scent of her arousal. "Trying to tell me something, Gwen?" His tone is all business, but his eyes betray him: dark and focused.

"Did I mention I'm showing?" she says cheerfully.

Guinevere's never seen him climb the ladder so fast.

* * *

 

She sets out the next morning. "Take another warrior with you," Cullen had pressed. "One more blade won't hurt."

It's a small concession, one Guinevere is happy to make. Cassandra seems pleased enough to get out of Skyhold, and even the usual squabbling between the Seeker and Dorian doesn't dampen the mood. Iron Bull bellows a travel song that has something to do with six Orlesian redheads and a rather alarming number of dragons.

The minor ache of her belly aside, she's almost comfortable. Between the new armored robes, more supportive breast-band—" _Masterworks_ from Orlais, my dear. You should be much more comfortable," Vivienne had assured her—and the light-stepping hart she'd finally named Bluebird, the journey goes quickly. _'Not even a nest of bandits to root out.'_ Despite the number of Inquisition patrols decreasing the further they get from Skyhold, they reach the Basin in five days without any trouble.

There, to her surprise—and suspicion— she finds a group of Inquisition soldiers camped to the south of the rift. The bugle of the horn sounds as they trot across the sand towards the encampment. Her eyes narrow in thought. None of the men seem particularly _shocked_ to see the Inquisitor, casual waves and salutes thrown in her direction by the men on the outskirts.

"Well, that's good luck, I suppose," Dorian says dryly, his flashy cremello gelding snorting before settling into stride beside Guinevere's hart. "They were just in the area, I suppose?"

"Yes," Cassandra scoffs from her place a few lengths ahead. "Good luck indeed."

"We don't know anything yet." Guinevere nibbles on the inside of her cheek. "Let's find out what they're doing here before we—"

"Assume that your beloved Commander has given in to his paranoia?" Dorian says brightly.

"The _last_ thing the men need to see is the leadership divided," Iron Bull rumbles. "We gotta' get this sorted, Boss. Could be nothing."

"Or it could be something." Guinevere frowns. "Let's find whoever's in charge here.

* * *

 

Finding that someone is harder than it should be, it turns out. To Guinevere's growing annoyance, the lieutenant in charge appears to be _dodging_ her, and it takes her far too long to corner him. She is seething by then, though she's careful not to show it.

"Easy, my dear," Dorian murmurs over her shoulder. "Do be careful not to blow the poor man up while I go have a look at the rift." There's a light brush of the mage's glove against her hand, and she realizes her mark has lit, sparking in her anger and the proximity to the Fade. A clench of her fist has it quieting.

"Lieutenant," she says to the armored man in front of her, appearing far calmer than she actually is. "May I have a word with you inside?"

"Of course, Inquisitor." He inclines his head, holding the tent flap open for her. Stepping into the dark, Bull takes a casual stance just outside, blocking anyone else from entering. The few eyes that had strayed over were distracted easily enough by Cassandra, the Seeker sweeping through camp for an inspection.

Guinevere observes the man in the dark of the tent as he removes his helmet. Tall, and not overly young, something about him seems familiar. Chestnut hair cut short in the traditional military fashion, ruddy skin and a nose that's clearly been broken more than once, he stands firmly but not overconfidently in front of her.

"Ward." The name comes to her after a moment. She recognizes him now as one of Cullen's men from Haven, and his dark eyes drop to meet her gaze before darting away. It tells her all she needs to know. Despite the front, he is _nervous_. "Ward...?"

"Thomas, Your Worship." He clears his throat. "Lieutenant Thomas Ward."

She nods, but doesn't say anything else. Her head lowers deliberately, the move controlled and slightly aggressive. It leaves Ward on edge, as she'd hoped it would. And then, Guinevere waits, letting the silence linger.

It takes him longer than she thought to break, and she's almost impressed. Cullen chose well. "Your Worship," he says. "If I may report? The activity at the rift has been—"

"Why are you here?" she interrupts. He's caught off guard, blinks at her but recovers admirably.

"We were in the area, Your Worship."

"Were you?" She draws the sound out, head tilted. "Are you telling me your patrol just _wanders_ , Lieutenant?"

"I—no, Your Worship."

"If you weren't wandering, then that implies intent. I'll ask you again: _why are you here, Lieutenant Ward?_ " She barks the question, her cooled frustration abruptly lighting again, and is slightly mollified when she sees him rear back.

"We were ordered, Your Worship."

"And what was your order?"

He hesitates. Her nostrils flare. "Do not make me ask again, Lieutenant," she warns.

Sweat breaks out on his lip, but he holds firm, meets her gaze. "Our orders are... classified. We were not to reveal them."

Her mark sparks. "Even to me?" she asks, voice dangerously low.

"...Yes, Your Worship."

She takes two steps forward, Ward faltering, swallowing hard at her approach. The anger is pooling hot in her belly, molten and heavy. Guinevere is fairly certain she knows what's going on, but she has to be sure.

"Who is your commanding officer?" she says coldly.

"Knight-Captain Rylen, Your Worship." She files the answer away. Not even a lieutenant, then, if his immediate superior is Rylen. No, Ward is a higher rank. _'Of course, he couldn't just be a lieutenant; not when he might have to deal with me.'_

"And who commands Rylen?" She watches the man, sees him close his eyes in realization.

"Commander Cullen, Your Worship."

"And who," she says finally, voice quiet, "leads Commander Cullen?"

"You do, Your Worship," he murmurs, eyes lowered and respectful.

"Now that we've settled that," she says grimly. "You will tell me what your orders are."

* * *

 

"Well," Bull says, grunting at her as Guinevere steps out of the tent, face stony. He scratches at his chin awkwardly. "Well," he says again.

The rage has settled, cold and steady, in her gut. She knows herself well enough to know she'll need to deal with it before she gets back to Skyhold; part of her is glad Cullen's not here, is so absolutely _furious_ with him that she knows she wouldn't be able to talk to him yet without shouting.

Guinevere ignores Bull, and she trots through the camp until she finds Cassandra, poring over the maps laid out on a table. When Cassandra glances up, Guinevere inclines her head towards the distant rift, coughing to cover her breathlessness. _'Damn it, I didn't even run that far.'_ The woman narrows her eyes, but stands to follow her as Guinevere begins the trek towards the slash of green hovering above the sand. Behind them, Guinevere can hear Ward bellowing orders, men scrambling to pack up.

Cassandra's brow furrows. "Are they—"

"Coming with us," Guinevere says curtly. "Their _orders_ were to guard the rift and _assist_ with its closure."

Cassandra doesn't speak immediately. When she does, her tone is thoughtful. "I see." She drums her fingers on her armor. "He is... worried about you."

"And he should have trusted me," she says sharply, regretting it immediately when Cassandra's lips purse. She grinds a hand against her eye with a groan. "I apologize, Cassandra. That was rude of me."

"It's alright. The extra men will... complicate things, it's true," Cassandra admits thoughtfully. "We are too used to closing rifts in small teams." They begin to climb the dune Dorian stands on. "Consider it practice."

"You and Dorian both," Guinevere puffs and she could almost accuse Cassandra of smiling.

"Then we are in agreement on something." She eyes Guinevere's hilt, still hanging at her hip. "You are... staying at range with Dorian then?"

"That's right!" Dorian calls down, hands on his hips. "It's about time she remember what it's like not being covered in a pride demon's stink. With the two of us up here, we'll have it cleared before you and Bull even make it down."

"Or you will light us both on fire and she'll set the dunes ablaze. I will not hold my breath," Cassandra says dryly.

"My darling Seeker, was that a joke?"

"Hey! Let's get this taken care of, huh?" Bull bellows. Dorian and Guinevere glance his way as Cassandra begins her slide down the dune, muttering all the while.

"Any plan in particular, Guinevere?" The Tevinter mage eyes the demons wandering around the rift. As they stand, the rift spits another foe out, a terror demon materializing in the sand. She sighs.

"I've told them to try and... stay out of our way, pick off wraiths around the edges, keep them contained more or less. Bull and Cassandra draw most of the fire and we just..." She makes a vague gesture with her hand, fire pooling along her fingers as she draws her staff with her other hand, eyeing the soldiers now encircling the rift.

"Well then!" Dorian says. "Shall we keep count of the kills? If _I_ win—"

She snorts, planting her staff. " _Not_ going to happen. I _am_ the Inquisitor, after all."

"Oh-ho, my distant cousin challenges me!" he crows. "I've beaten you before at this game. Who's to say I won't again?"

"You forget, Dorian." Her staff lights as she summons her magic and Guinevere bears her teeth in a feral grin. "I'm pregnant. And I'm _very, very angry_."

* * *

 

In the end, Dorian will beat her by one. Her aim is still, well... all she'll admit is that she sometimes hits more demons than she planned. It's all the more complicated with the extra bodies she now has to keep track of, though they follow her directions and stick to the outer edges, routing wraiths and other demons back into the kill zone. She lets her magic flare hot and violent, lets the rage burn its way out of her body through her fingers and her staff. She can't _hit_ something with a blade, but it's almost as satisfying.

Even angry, _furious_ , weaving mildly clumsy spells left and right, she remembers to throw barriers onto Cassandra and Bull, and between her and Dorian, the two warriors receive nary a scratch. It feels strange, however: the lack of shielding on her own skin as her magic pulses.

Some of the soldiers have never seen her close a rift before; not up close. She ignores them as she does, and only as the flush of magic, the essence of the Fade itself, sparks wild and angry out of her raised hand to seal the rift does she have the chilling thought for the first time: _'What's my mark doing to the baby?'_

* * *

 

It is hot on the return journey, the air thick and cloying. Storm clouds gather on the horizon, eventually opening up with a late spring downpour and slowing her and her companions to a crawl. Bluebird takes it admirably, droplets rolling down his antlers as he walks. At first, they pull on their cloaks and hoods; well, except for Bull.

"Bah, this is nothing. You should a _Seheron_ rain. Now those are nasty."

Eventually, they tug the hoods back, the coolness of the water preferable to the stifling air inside the cloaks. It's on the way back that she lags back with Dorian—his mount looking just as miserable in the rain as his master—and confesses her worry. Even angry, she hates, _hates_ not telling Cullen first, remembers too clearly what happened the last time she didn't say anything, but this is _different_.

"I'll admit, the thought had occurred to me," Dorian admits, squinting as water rolls down his face. "Blasted wet. I assume you haven't told Cullen yet? I know you're still angry, but you need to—"

"I know, I know!" She waves him off. "After I shout at him a bit, I plan on telling him. But it doesn't change the fact that I need to _know,_ Dorian, and you're—"

"Educated? Well-read? Magnificently intelligent?"

"I was going to say, 'the closest thing we have to an expert on rifts with Solas gone.'" At his huff, she continues, soothing his pride with a little smile. " _And_ you're my friend. Your intellect knows no bounds, I long for your wisdom, etcetera." She glances at him. "Better?"

"You know, I'd _almost_ think you were being sarcastic, except _all_ of what you've said is completely true." A hand claps on her shoulder fondly, scattering water droplets. "Especially the bit about being your friend. I'll look into it."

* * *

 

She gets two letters on the way back. The first is from Josephine. It's incredibly apologetic, full of words like " _Sorry_ " and phrases like " _If we'd known_ ", and ending pleadingly on, _"Cullen is worried about the both of you, Guinevere. Do go easy on the poor Commander_." It's all elegant phrases and a few comments on the difficulties of one's lover being so far away, but Guinevere keeps catching on, " _both of you"._ Reads it over twice. She remembers Cullen saying it, but it's different hearing it from someone else, to have the proof on paper. She rubs at the swell of her belly absently. _'Right, it really is the two of us, isn't it?'_

Leliana's letter is shorter and less tactful: _"The Inquisition cannot be seen as divided. I will quiet the rumours among the men, but you must speak with Cullen. As your spymaster, I advise this not happen again._ " Guinevere appreciates the honesty.

She sends one message of her own, composed of four words: _"Be ready to talk."_ As she attaches it to the raven at one of the camps and sends it off to Cullen, she frowns into the rain, and hopes her anger has cooled enough by the time she reaches Skyhold that their conversation can be mildly civil.

* * *

 

Unlike the last time she rode into Skyhold, there is no crowd to greet her: no one's quite willing to brave the heat and the rain, so thick that the horn only blows when they're already riding through the gate. Other than a few guards and the grooms that rush out to take their mounts, there is no one there—not even Cullen.

Her anger flares. She aches, she's soaking wet, and he can't even come down to greet her. "Where's the Commander?" she barks at one of the guards, before waving him off. "Never mind; I can guess on a day like this."

Guinevere doesn't wait for him to open the door. She opens it herself, kicks it shut behind her. Cullen is sitting at his desk, stacks of paperwork laid out before him. "I _thought_ I made it clear that I was not to be inter—" he glances up, eyes widening when he sees her. "—rupted," he finishes.

She stares at him, standing in a growing puddle of water. He clears his throat, not looking at her as he shuffles his paperwork out of the way. When he stands, he lifts a hand to the back of his neck."I—"

Guinevere holds up a hand to stop him. "The funniest thing happened," she says, slowly and carefully. Her mood swings again, and she takes a moment to gather herself. "There I was, planning to close a small rift, as I have many times before. Only this time, the rift was surrounded by Inquisition soldiers." She blinks at him, lips flat. "I'm not going to ask if you knew anything about that. Ward told me what I needed to know."

"You needed to be protected," Cullen finally says, turning away from her hard stare to look out the window. "I wasn't going to lose you."

"How could you do that to me?" She lifts a hand to rub at her face, skin slick with rainwater. She doesn't bother to hide the hurt and confusion in her voice. "I've closed tens of dozens of rifts, Cullen." Ignores the shuffle of his boots on the stone floor, can't see it with her eyes closed. "I told you I didn't need any help, that they need to _know_ I can still do things like close rifts and fight and _lead_." A hand brushes her shoulder hesitantly, but she pulls away.

"They would _never_ see you as—"

"But I do!" She whirls, and Maker, she hates that she's crying, hates that Cullen sees it, hates the cliché of it, bitterness on her tongue. "I'm going to spend _months_ fat and helpless, waddling from place to place, relying on everyone else. All I wanted was a few months to be myself before I can't fight!" Guinevere bares her teeth at him, wounded and feral, when he tries to approach her again. Cullen stops, drops his hands until they dangle at his sides.

This time around, the guilt in the room is coming from him.

"I didn't think," he says quietly. "Please, Gwen."

"Why didn't you trust me?" She watches him, feeling more exposed than ever with the tears on her cheeks but not willing to run. Walking out the door would solve nothing. They needed to... fix this, somehow.

"It was less that I didn't trust you," he answers without hesitation, eyes downcast. "And more that I was worried about... the dragon came out of _nowhere_ , Gwen. I kept _seeing_ it in my mind, something coming out of that rift and..."

Her next question comes so soft he can barely hear it. "Do _you_ think I'm weak?"

His head jerks up, surprised. Cullen's brow furrows, and when he answers, his voice is fierce and unwavering: "Never."

"I can't do this if I don't... if _we_ don't trust each other, Cullen." She scrubs at her face with her palms. This time, when the feather-light touch on her shoulder comes, she doesn't shake it off. He winds her in carefully, giving her every opportunity to pull away, before he is holding her against him. His hands clench at her shoulders when he has to alter his stance—her belly necessitating a change. Despite herself, Guinevere buries her face in the fur of his mantle, fisting her hands in the fabric. The smell, the touch of it, soothes her, dries her tears. "We need to be on the same page," she whispers.

Cullen brushes a kiss to her temple. "I agree. I'm so sorry, Gwen." His sigh stirs her hair. "Forgive me?"

"You ridiculous man," she mutters. He stiffens, starts to pull away but she holds tight, lets him struggle a moment before he stills. Only then does she continue: "I love you, and I've already forgiven you."

"I deserved that," he grumbles, sliding his jaw against her hair. "I love you, too. More than you know."

She tilts her head up to look at him, catches his eye. "Out of curiosity, what would you have done if it had been two of your men divided like that?"

His eyes close and he groans. "Maker's breath, I didn't even think of that. I'd have them running team-building exercises in the Wastes for a month."

"The Wastes are a bit far for us, remember?" she adds unhelpfully, needling him just a little. He snorts against her hair. "We'll just have to make do with Skyhold."

He blinks at her, brow furrowed. Realization dawns. "You mean you're—"

"Decided on the way there, actually." She drums her fingers against his armor, hesitant to admit to fatigue or the ache in her back. Both are only minor problems, but her increasing penchant for breathlessness during battle and her growing belly are less easily ignored. "I'll be a bit too big for comfortable travel soon. The last thing I want is to crush my hart like I've dropped a druffalo on him."

There is a tiny shake, and she realizes Cullen is stifling _laughter_. She purses her lips. "It's not funny."

"I'm sure you won't get that big," he assures her, hands trailing up to her hair. He plucks at her messy braid, loose strands tangled and snarled. "Now, let's take care of your wet clothes and your hair, shall we?"

"Here? Oh, no, Cullen." She grins. "We're making a run through the rain back to the keep. Or as fast as I can run, anyway."

* * *

 

She wakes him up in the middle of the night, kisses him as soon as his eyes open, hand already sliding beneath the covers. "Gwen," he rasps, startling at the feel of her cool fingers as they curl around him, the touch sending a bolt of arousal through him.

"If I did get that big," she says breathlessly, delighted and frustrated both at the heat coiling low in her belly, "would you still fuck me?"

One of his hands drops down, two fingers testing, and he groans as her wetness coats his fingers. "How long have you been like this?" he mutters, fingers circling lazily.

She shivers at his touch, huffs a breath. "For a bit now. Not—ah! Not sure how long. Answer the question, Cullen."

"Doesn't matter how big," he breathes, and there's enough heat in his voice to make her think he's thought about this, "I'd still want to drink you dry, fuck you until you couldn't remember your own name. Just mine."

"Cullen," she whines, grateful when he finally grasps at her thigh, his hand slick, tugging it up over his hip. It's an easier position for her now, opening her body to him without added pressure. He shivers, mouth against hers.

"Exactly."

* * *

 

The next few weeks pass quickly, and she spends most of her time _adjusting_. Now that she's not in the field, she can't exactly dodge paperwork. It's tedious, but it keeps her hands busy and, more importantly, keeps her _away_ from Josephine.

"I think she wants to drown me in fabrics," Guinevere laments to Cullen one evening. "I'm not sure I can stand another discussion over the merits of willow weave versus sea silk as pertaining to a child's wardrobe."

"The sea silk, clearly," he mumbles, nose buried in his book. "Willow weave would look dreadful."

Cullen continues to devour novels on pregnancy, children, and parenting, _'Lare Mahz's Pregnancy Exercises'_ and _'The Warrior's Child'_ slotted between books on Orlesian military tactics and combat strategies for fighting in the Seheron. He's handling it well, all things considered. He even took her admission about the mark in stride.

"We'll figure it out," he'd murmured, lifting her hand to his mouth. When the mark flickered green light, he hadn't even flinched, and her love for him grew a little more.

To the amazement of _no one_ who knew her, she insists on continuing to practice with her staff, working through careful exercises and learning to maneuver around her growing stomach. Guinevere may have settled in at Skyhold for the rest of the duration of her pregnancy, but she would _not_ let her skills go so easily.

She does make sure her barrier is up as she practices.

And it's there in the training ring that it happens. Cullen is up on the battlements, keeping an eye on her as he always seems to do now, while she moves through basic maneuvers with Bull. She chats with the Qunari as she does so, both of them too experienced for this slow mime of combat to really take up that much of their attention. She sends her staff into a lazy spin and miscalculates. It grazes her stomach, and the Iron Bull's practice sword, meant to counter against her staff, strikes her hip. It's not a strong hit, certainly, bouncing off her barrier with ease. It's the angry little _twitch_ inside her that throws her, startles her just enough that she stumbles to a knee.

She doesn't even see Cullen racing down the steps, eyes wide as she stares up at Iron Bull leaning over her, face concerned. "Sorry about that, Boss. You ok?" He offers a hand, tugs her up.

Guinevere hadn't been sure, but as she stands there, hand flat on her abdomen, she feels the flutter again. Bull's eyebrows lift. "Ah!" he laughs. "Was wondering when that would start. Sounds like Junior wasn't too fond of that last hit." He grins. "My mistake."

"Gwen!" She turns, still feeling a bit dazed, just as Cullen enters the ring. She doesn't move, stands quietly, almost afraid that any sort of motion or sound from her will stop what she's feeling. Bull is backing away, looking sly.

"She's alright, but I think she's got something to tell you." He jerks his head towards the tavern. "You know where to find me."

Cullen gives him a strange look as Bull passes, but his concern for Guinevere outweighs his curiosity as he steps in close. "I saw you fall. Are you—"

She catches one of his hands when he lifts it to touch her, places it on her belly instead. _'Come on, don't stop now. You weren't shy a moment ago.'_ And there: the twitch, or a pop, she's not really sure how to describe it, but it's clear and it's _there_ , and it means that even with the mark, the baby's _alive_.

She grins at Cullen, his eyes huge. He lifts his other hand, bites at the tip of his glove and tugs it off frantically, dropping the hand back down as soon as it's free and pressing it against her stomach. "The books said... usually after twenty weeks for new mothers." His voice is awestruck, and Cullen drops his head to her shoulder, staring down at his hands. She does the same.

"Hello there," she whispers. "I'll try to be a bit more gentle in the future."

Cullen, hands staying steady on the swell of her stomach, dips, slides down carefully until he is kneeling in front of her, heedless of the curious glances thrown their way. He stares at her belly, eyes darting up to her once. At her smile, he leans forward, rests his cheek against her skin. His eyes close, and he grins when the baby moves again.

"Well go on, then," Guinevere scolds, all mock indignation. "I've said hello. It's your turn."

Cullen turns his head, presses a kiss against her stomach. "Hello." His voice cracks. "I can't wait to meet you."


	4. In Which They Reach the Final Stretch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nobles are pushy, parties are thrown, withdrawal rears its head, and the newest Rutherford is born.
> 
> Last chapter, folks! Thanks for following along on this crazy prompt ride!

Guinevere understood, as did Cullen, that with her status as Inquisitor came certain _duties_. She was an authority figure and a symbol. Despite the fact that this child was hers, was Cullen's, she couldn't escape the feeling that these nobles who trekked far and wide to 'congratulate' her—despite the fact that they'd not been invited, and the official 'welcome' celebration was not for months—viewed the baby as _theirs_. She's getting sick of it.

"The next noble to grope my belly," she hisses as she and Cullen walk the battlements, "will be getting an up close and personal look at the mark." Her sour mood isn't improved by the fact that these walks were getting harder with each week that passed, even with Cullen's encouragements and insistence that the easy exercise would assist the birth. She's already huffing, mouth pinched.

A warm, muscled arm slides around her shoulders and she sighs, letting her lover tug her close as they walk, curling her own arm around his waist. She doesn't look up, can't see the smirk, but she can _hear_ it when he speaks: "I'd offer to take their hands off for you, but I believe you're more than capable of doing it yourself."

"Damn right," she mutters, rubbing her cheek against the fur of his mantle as they approach his office. Just in front of the door, he stops, spinning to face her. There's a sly look to him that has her narrowing her eyes. One gloved hand trails up her throat before curling around the back of her neck, pulling her in for a warm kiss. She hums, catching at his belt, desire spiking hot between her legs when his tongue slides against her own. She can't get enough of him lately—and he knows it.

"I have a gift for you," he murmurs against her mouth, pausing briefly to suck on her lower lip, making her moan.

"I do love gifts. Is it something I'm familiar with?" She drops one hand from his belt to brush across the front of his trousers, tracing her fingers along his arousal, making him huff before he catches her hand and lifts it to his mouth, laying a kiss across her knuckles. There's a flush to his cheeks as he smirks at her.

"That isn't... quite what I had in mind." She raises an eyebrow and he clears his throat. "Not yet, anyway." Nudging the door open, he leads her inside. She's surprised when Cullen doesn't immediately head for the ladder up to his loft, instead rummaging through one of the drawers at his desk. She leans a hip against the wood, watching him curiously. When he finally stands, he's holding something behind his back.

"Close your eyes," he says. She purses her lips, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. "It wouldn't be much of a surprise, otherwise, Gwen."

"My my, Ser Rutherford, what _do_ you have planned?"

"You'll see. Eyes closed." He puts just a touch, a _hint_ of command in his voice, but it's enough to send a shiver down her spine. She can't let him see her reaction, though—not when they're playing a game like this. She sighs theatrically before doing as he asked.

Leaning back against the desk, there's a quiet rustle and the crinkle of wrapping paper. Then, nothing. She waits, brow beginning to furrow. A sudden heat against her front, and she realizes he's standing close, a puff of warm breath across her throat. She shivers again, imagines his mouth just a hairs-breadth away from hers. Unexpectedly, his thumb brushes across her lower lip. "Open your mouth," he whispers and she does without thinking, lulled by his voice and his scent; he presses something small past her lips.

Bitter and sweet blooms across her tongue, and she sucks in a breath. Rich and smooth, with just a touch of spice, the chocolate melts quickly on her tongue, the small almond inside providing a delicious contrast in texture. Guinevere groans, working the taste into every corner of her mouth. She'd been craving them for weeks now, but they were impossible to get outside of the small confectionery in Val Royeaux. Her eyes snap open. One side of Cullen's mouth curls up.

"How did you—"

"It took some doing, but Josephine and I have managed to arrange a regular delivery. You'd be surprised at how quickly people leap to help when you mention it's for the Inquisitor." He lifts the small bag. "All for you."

Hooking her hands in his collar, she tugs him down for a kiss. He rumbles a pleased sound, dropping the chocolates blindly on his desk before bracing his arms on either side of her, hemming her in. The sweetness of the cocoa lingers in her mouth, mixing now with Cullen's taste—the finest pairing she's had yet. He's smiling against her lips, chasing the chocolate on her tongue. His hand drops to the curve of her belly and the kiss turns hungry, sudden and fierce.

"Cullen," she pants, his mouth leaving hers to slide along her jaw, stubble rasping against her skin. "Upstai—"

"No," he growls, nipping at her ear. "I'll not have you climbing a ladder and risking a fall."

"I, Maker's _breath_ , Cullen." Her head lolls, train of thought momentarily lost as he presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to her throat. "It's just a little—"

"No," he repeats, lifting his head. He kisses her affectionately, but his amber eyes are burning. He won't budge on this one. She bites at his lip in retaliation, just to hear him moan her name.

"Then you'd better come up with something quickly, Commander. I'm not in the mood to wait."

* * *

 

Decorations are being moved out of the main hall. Guinevere watches with a frown as the workers snatch up Varric's table, despite the strident objections of the dwarf still using it. She's about to intervene for him before she sees men gathering around her Ferelden dog statues beside the throne. _'I think not.'_

Ultimately, their desire to fulfill Josephine's orders is overwhelmed by a sense of self-preservation when confronted by a determined Inquisitor.

Josephine sighs and flutters, worries about how the shapes will clash with the rest of the decor for the 'unofficial' party, but Guinevere's spent too much time—and money—on the statues to let them go now. In her mind, the grinning dogs add a desperately needed sense of fun to an otherwise stately and solemn room.

"The twins stay, Josie."

The ambassador sighs, lifting her tablet to make a note. "As you wish. I suppose King Alistair and Queen Ophelia will enjoy them, at the very least."

* * *

 

Healer Abby, a withered old woman with crooked teeth and sallow skin, presents her with a potion. "The body," the woman announces, "during pregnancy, often communicates with the mind through dreams. All that awareness in the fade is fine and well most of the time, but you need to _listen_."

Guinevere takes the potion with a frown. "Why wasn't this a problem earlier?"

"The dreams don't always happen in the beginning, but you're certainly far enough along now." Abby pokes one wrinkled finger at Guinevere. "Either take the potion and dream as those without magic do, or let your dreams do their work without interference from you."

"I haven't dreamed like that in ages," she remarks, twisting the vial in her hands. She watches the lavender liquid slosh around inside the vial.

"Then it's about time to start."

* * *

 

Guinevere ambushes Cullen at all hours, dragging him down dark corridors and into storage rooms. She wakes him with her mouth or her hands, leaves bites trailed across his skin like map markers, _'mine, mine, mine_.' until he moans her name. The simplest of things can stir her.

A warm glance across the war table.

A droplet of sweat rolling down his skin in the training ring.

A swipe of his tongue across his thumb to turn the page.

Pupils blown wide and dark, his mouth hot on hers as he takes her, he never seems to mind.

* * *

 

The dress for the party arrives. It's lovely, of course, as are all Vivienne's choices: a storm grey fading to sea-foam green as it flows like water down to her toes before splashing out to trail behind her. The loose folds in the fabric seem to emphasize—rather than hide—her growing belly. The line just under the bust emphasizes her breasts while small straps leave her arms bare. Overall, it's tasteful while still exuding a touch of sensuality: a flattering gown.

She's just not used to seeing herself so... vulnerable. Guinevere drops a hand to her stomach as the baby shifts, the fluttering sensation familiar now. She doesn't even carry her arcane blade's hilt anymore, but her hand clenches either way, grasping for a defense she doesn't have.

" _How to protect something so important with so little? What is a wolf without its fangs? Quiet, sleeping fear, tempered in the fade, how can one hand hold a flame and the other a baby? Cats can't change their stripes_."

She tilts her head but doesn't turn. "Cole." Guinevere's at a loss for words, goes back to frowning in the mirror. He's not wrong.

"I could hear you hurting from the courtyard," he says quietly. Not a surprise; she's been standing here for almost an hour now. "You're scared. You're so used to protecting with a blade and a staff; but you can't do that now and you don't know what to do." He appears at her side, all pale straw hair and blue doe-eyes. "A wolf has teeth but it has a pack, too. We can help you, like you've helped us."

She catches the fabric of the dress with her callused fingers. It's soft, gives easily under her nails. She could tear it—could shred the whole thing to pieces without any effort at all. She wouldn't even need a knife.

Fragile. Delicate. Vulnerable.

She locks eyes with Cole in the mirror."I'm not sure it's that easy."

* * *

 

_Joy. Life. It's beautiful, held in her hands, a kiss pressed to her hair._

_Something slips, her green hands or her muck-covered feet, she's not sure which. She loses her grip._

_A million shards of porcelain—crying pink doll's mouth, accusatory glass eyes—scattered everywhere as she gathers them up desperately, slivers gouging her hands, her own blood splashing scarlet slick._

_She hears the whispers all around. "You didn't give enough." She didn't; she should have bled more for them._

_"You dropped them." She'd always been clumsy, hadn't that been what her mother had said?_

_"What kind of mother are you?" A horrible one, an awful one; what was she thinking?_

_His voice, broken and sorrowful, comes last: "How could you?"_

Guinevere wakes with a scream, Cullen's arms wrapped around her from behind to prevent her from thrashing. She shakes, soaked in sweat, barely hearing his murmured comforts as he rocks her gently. She buries her face in the pillow, gulping in air as her heart races. "I broke them, Cullen," she gasps, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I broke them and I couldn't put them back together; there were so many pieces."

"It was a nightmare, Gwen, everything's alright." He rolls her over to face him, and she hides her face in the hollow of his throat, twining around him as best she can with her belly in the way, nails digging into his skin so deeply she's sure she'll leave marks. He doesn't even flinch at her painful grip, settles his head atop hers instead. "You didn't break anything," he whispers. "The baby's fine."

"You don't know that," she hiccups. "Dorian still hasn't found anything. This mark on my hand could be... Cullen, what if I'm a _horrible_ mother?"

A hand sweeps soothingly up and down her spine. "You will be amazing," he says fiercely, and he sounds so confident, she almost believes him.

* * *

 

Standing in her gown in Skyhold's main hall, Cullen dashing and proud on her arm, she finds she doesn't regret letting Josephine plan this party as much as she'd thought. The colors in the hall, while bright and cheerful, are tastefully done, and there are less ruffles than she'd expected. A relatively small group of ten musicians fill one corner, and the twin hound statues near the throne are still present—though great effort has been made to draw the eye away via drapes and lines of flowers along the walls.

There are a few more than one-hundred people meandering in varying shades of finery, but most of them are people she knows, so she's inclined to let the increased number slide, especially when she notices how well everyone's mingling—nobles and commoners alike mixing without any apparent tension. Josephine's... chosen well.

Cullen seems just as shocked. "I thought for sure it would be more..." He gestures vaguely.

"Excessive?" she says dryly. "I'm sure she's saving that for the _official_ party."

"True, but one could argue this is almost... pleasant."

She smiles. "Don't tell me the great Commander might actually enjoy himself at a party."

He gives her a sidelong glance, lips quirked. "I would admit to nothing under questioning." She lets out a bark of laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound.

"Boss!" Bull bellows, waving a massive hand from where he stands amongst a small crowd. "Cullen! There you are! Get your asses over here so we can share a drink."

She laughs, feels a bit of the seriousness leave her. This certainly isn't the Winter Palace. "Have you forgotten I can't drink that swill of yours, Bull?" she shouts back.

"Not that you'd _want_ to," Cullen grumbles, but she can see the little smile tugging at his mouth as they wander over to the group.

"Nah, you get the _special_ stuff imported from Seheron." Bull lifts a bottle. "Perfect for growing strong little Inquisitors!"

"He _means_ there's no alcohol in it, but don't let that fool you," Dorian warns, leaning against the wall beside Iron Bull. Despite the casual stances and the lack of touch, there's an energy between the two that implies affection. "There's enough spice in that bottle to sauté the mouth of an angry Archdemon."

"Ah, a little fire never hurt anyone." Bull waves Dorian off.

"Do tell that to the next Venatori I set ablaze."

* * *

 

Despite the hang-ups many of her companions have about parties such as this, they're _all_ there, and it warms her down to her toes. She even convinces a reluctant Cullen to dance with her, and despite all his proclamations to the contrary, he performs admirably. Their cheeks flush as the crowd applauds their final spin.

It's as they're stepping off the dance floor that Guinevere hears a familiar voice rise above the chatter. "Oh, excellent job, you two; though it's not the Remigold." She turns, sees a man lift a glass and incline his head to her. He's dressed in warm reds and golds, complimenting the highlights in his hair, though his crown is notably absent. His lips purse as Guinevere fumbles into a bow, as does Cullen beside her. "Now now," Alistair sighs. "None of that, if you please. This is a casual event. Besides, what kind of king would I be if I expected pregnant women to just go bowing left and right?"

"A normal one, some might argue. But then, when has that ever been a concern for us?"

It's only then that Guinevere notices the woman on King Alistair's arm. The Queen is short and lean, all coiled energy and scarred lines wrapped in Grey Warden blue and silver. Her face and throat burned a warm tan, clear slashes across her skin mark where her armor sits in the field. The Queen's jaw-length hair, the color of an open flame, is streaked with gold from time in the sun.

"Ah! Where are my manners?" Alistair grins. "Opheli _-ah_ , may I introduce Inquisitor Guinevere Trevelyan? She's the one who took care of that nasty Tevinter magister in Redcliffe. And you already know the Commander."

"Your Majesty." Guinevere goes to bow again, her stomach all done up in knots. There'd been vague rumors about Queen Ophelia's return, of course, but nothing substantial until now. _'She doesn't look like someone who killed an Archdemon._ ' When Josephine said she'd invited the King _and_ Queen of Ferelden, she'd thought it a nicety at most, had never expected them both to actually make an appearance. She feels a bit giddy, meeting the Hero. "You honor us with—" Before she can finish, Ophelia is grasping her hands, tugging her up. The Queen's lips quirk.

"From what I understand, the honor is mine. You had a hand in saving my husband not once, but _twice_." Ophelia casts a fond, exasperated glance at Alistair, who shrugs sheepishly before he tugs Cullen aside. The Queen squeezes Guinevere's hands. "In light of that, I think bowing is a bit much, hm?"

Guinevere's cheeks flush and she glances at Cullen as he stands with Alistair, the King gesturing emphatically, relaying a story that has Cullen blinking in amazement. Guinevere is struck with the sudden realization of how unlikely it is that _both_ men are standing here, alive and well. "I heard about you in the Tower; what you did for everyone, and for Cullen." She watches Cullen crack a smile, a laugh escaping him at something Alistair said, who looks incredibly pleased with himself for breaking the Commander's stoic demeanor. "If you hadn't saved him first, I don't know where I'd be."

Ophelia hums in agreement. "We'll just have to consider all debts equal, then." They watch the two ex-Templars for a long moment, the men bending their heads together to speak over the cacophony of the crowd. It's not long before Guinevere can feel the tension growing in Ophelia, can see Alistair darting glances their way. The yearning between the two is unmistakable.

"You missed him, didn't you?" Guinevere asks quietly.

"You have no idea," Ophelia says, voice soft and fervent. "Being apart like that was... I don't think we've left each other's side for longer than an hour since I returned." Shifting, fingers curling, she glances at Guinevere, who grins.

"I'm a closet romantic, Your Majesty. The last thing I'd do is stop a queen from returning to her king."

Ophelia snorts, an unladylike sound, before she squeezes a hand on Guinevere's shoulder. "Congratulations on your little one."

As the Queen begins to walk away, Guinevere can't help but call after her: "Did you find it?"

The Queen stops, turning just slightly. Guinevere can see a sly little smile on her lips. "Now _that_ would be telling, Lady Inquisitor." She inclines her head before drifting towards Alistair, who welcomes her with open arms. Something visibly settles in both of them with the proximity—Guinevere imagines she can see Alistair sigh, Ophelia's hand tightening on his arm as she leans against him—before Alistair laughs, begging his leave of Cullen and whisking Ophelia away to the dance floor.

"Well," she says, moving to Cullen's side. He wraps an arm around her waist, fingers stroking lightly across the side of her stomach before settling against her hip. "That was exciting. I didn't think they'd actually be here."

"Officially, they're _not_ actually here, from what I understand." He blinks, watches as the royal couple suddenly darts through the crowd, heading for a side door. Guinevere would recognize their flushed cheeks and coy glances anywhere. "Are they doing what I think they're doing?" Cullen asks dryly.

"Oh, as if you wouldn't do the same thing."

"I would absolutely—"

"Don't you lie to me."

"—have taken you down a corridor _earlier_ if I could have gotten away with it." His voice lowers, heat curling along the edges and she bites the inside of her lip.

"Wicked man," she murmurs. "We still have one more party to attend, remember?"

He chuckles, fingers tightening momentarily—she can feel the warmth of his hand burning through the fabric of her dress. Cullen's eyes are hot when he glances at her. "A reminder of what will come later, Gwen. Nothing more."

"A reminder or a promise?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

She can't drag him to the tavern fast enough.

* * *

 

Someone's set up their own party decorations inside the Herald's Rest. The Inquisition symbol has been drawn clumsily over the door and painted on banners while dragon heads have been liberated from the trophy room to hang along the wall, wrapped with various streamers and decked with flower crowns. The fire in the hearth is blazing merrily away, and the tables—all shoved together in the center of the room—have been cleaned. Some of her friends are already a few mugs in and deep into a discussion before her and Cullen arrive. Only Josephine, Leliana, and Vivienne are missing, no doubt still attending to their duties back at the official-unofficial party. The group at the table all pause their conversation to cheer at the couple, waving and quickly clearing the detritus in front of them away in preparation.

Guinevere wags her finger at them as Cullen pulls out her chair, hovering until she's settled before taking his own seat beside her. "I don't know what you're planning—" she says.

"Ah, relax, Inquisitor," Varric chortles from his seat across from her. "This is a good one, I promise."

She tilts her head before Sera is bellowing from farther down the table, "Gifts! Get on with it! 'S what a shower is, yeah? Andraste's ass, daft tit, can't you just say somethin' without sayin' nothin?"

"You'd make a horrible storyteller, Buttercup."

* * *

 

In the end, they'll end up roping Bull into helping carry the gifts to Guinevere and Cullen's room. There is a rocking lion from Blackwall— _"A lion for the Lion's cub, you might say."_ —with carefully painted eyes and a furry black mane, and an illustrated book of fairy tales from Varric.

There are toy weapons from Iron Bull... _lots_ of them. "One from each Charger!" he laughs. "This way, you'll know which one the kid likes carrying from the very beginning. No point training them with a dagger if they're just going to end up with an axe."

Cassandra gifts them a soft, button-eyed griffon. "All children should have something soft," Cassandra says, Cullen lifting the toy to admire the fierce expression sewn into its face.

"You mean, other than a big, cuddly Seeker?" Varric chuckles.

"I still have my sword, dwarf."

Sera presents a mobile, decorated with tiny nobles wearing torn pants and clown-faced servants holding ridiculously large scissors, while Cole gets them a sling, soft and warm on the inside, that can be adjusted to fit either Guinevere or Cullen.

Dorian is last, and it's with a great flourish that he presents a silver rattle: gleaming and bright. And she thinks that's all it is, before he waves at her. "Well, go on, then! Shake it about." And she does, and _'Maker's breath, it lights up,_ ' flickering swirls of red and blue and green. The mage is practically glowing himself. " _That_ should keep the little one busy when mummy and daddy run off to play, hm?" She chucks a loaf of bread at him as Cullen groans, but she's secretly delighted—suspects Cullen is, too.

"Here's to real gifts!" Iron Bull roars, lifting his tankard in a toast.

* * *

 

It's towards the end of her sixth month, _'Or am I in the seventh, now?',_ that, for the first time, the size of her belly becomes what she considers a _problem_. Laying in bed, she stares at Cullen. He's sleeping peacefully on his back, as if all is right in the world when it most certainly _is not_.

Her brow furrows and she attempts to scoot towards him again. She stops when the swell of her stomach presses against his side, trying to lift the weight to rest on him. He grunts in his sleep, head lolling, used to her shifting and draping over him throughout the night. She cranes her neck forward, manages to barely touch his shoulder before she drops back with a huff. She can't cuddle with him anymore, not comfortably—he's too... firm. _'When did this happen? When did I get so..._ '

A little hiccup of a sob escapes her. She claps a hand over her mouth in surprise even as her vision begins to blur with tears. No. No, she will _not_ cry over something so _stupid_. She will control her emotions. She will not—

Another sound escapes her and she twists away from Cullen, rolling across the bed, desperate to muffle the sound of her crying. The choked sobs come harder, enough to make her shake with the force of it, and she buries her face in the pillow, snarling even as the tears wet the fabric. The sheets shift, and a hand touches her arm where she is hunched in on herself.

"Gwen?" Cullen's voice is slurred with sleep. "Are you—Maker's Breath, Gwen, what's wrong?" His hand tightens, and when she doesn't look up from her pillow or answer, he leans over her, trying to catch her eye. "Talk to me, Gwen, _please_."

"Go back to sleep, Cullen," she groans, voice hitching, another wave of tears leaking from her tightly-closed eyes. She keeps her fisted hands over her face, trying to hide her embarrassment.

"Not until you tell me what's wrong." He sweeps her hair away from her face, still trying to get her to look at him. When he finally tugs one of her hands away, it's like a damn bursts.

"It's ridiculous!" she howls, and Cullen startles at the vehemence in her voice. "I'm already huge at six months and now I can't even _reach_ you properly anymore, this stupid belly gets in the way, you're too hard, and I won't be able to curl up with my arm on you, and _now I can't stop crying!"_

"You can't... reach me?" he says, sounding puzzled before understanding strikes. "Oh... oh! Is that all?"

"Isn't that enough?" she spits, fisting her hands in her hair. "Andraste's ass! It's hard enough getting up to pee four times a night, and now I can't—I can't—" and to her disgust, her voice hiccups into a sob again. Cullen runs a hand back and forth along her side, trying to soothe her.

"We'll just have to do a little adjusting, is all," he assures her. "There's always a solution. You wait right here."

"As if I'm going anywhere," she sniffles, ignoring the rustle as Cullen leaves the bed, continues talking to herself. "Already starting to _waddle_ , like some giant druffalo."

"You don't waddle." Cullen's voice is muffled as he moves around in their closet. "And you look nothing like a druffalo."

"You're only saying that because you know I'm going to get bigger." Guinevere tugs the sheet up over her head, the feeling of ridiculousness fading as quickly as her tears—that is to say, _not at all_. A moment later, Cullen is pulling the covers back down. His hand drops to cradle her cheek, thumb wiping away her tears.

"I'm saying it because it's true," he says firmly. Something large and soft plops onto the bed next to her. "Now, let's see how useful the Orlesians _actually_ are. Try this."

She reaches out hesitantly, fingers touching upon something cool and plush. It's long and heavy, but gives when she presses. Guinevere tugs it towards her, realizing it's a _pillow_ : a huge, fluffy thing in a loose C shape. It's easy enough to curl into it, the pillow fitting under her belly and head, between her legs, perfectly. She can already feel some of the aches in her back—ones she hadn't even noticed—easing as Cullen crawls back into bed next to her.

"It's not the same," she mumbles into the pillow, pleasant though it is. "I can't touch you like this."

"Fortunately, _I_ can touch _you_." And he's curling around her, her back flush to his chest. The section of pillow under her head apparently slides out far enough that he has space to rest his head as well, his breath stirring her hair. He slings an arm over her waist, nestling his legs behind hers, ensuring she doesn't roll onto her back in her sleep. It's only now that she remembers how much he likes this position.

"Better?" he says, nosing at the back of her neck, drowsy and full of affection.

She sighs, burrowing into the pillow, lulled by Cullen's warmth against her skin. "I suppose."

"I'll have to remind you of the other benefits of this position," he says before drifting off.

As he slides into her from behind the next morning, making her cry out as pleasure tears through her, she decides that maybe this new sleeping position isn't so bad.

* * *

 

"And you still can't find anything?"

"Believe it or not, my dear, people don't just fall out of the fade with marks in their palm every day." Dorian waves a hand at her. "Fewer of them still become pregnant. You're something of a trailblazer."

Guinevere grunts, rubbing at her temples. Leliana's ravens are quiet, and the library is mostly empty, only one or two scribes and apprentices moving among the shelves. "Could Abby... sense anything?" she hazards. They've been working on this for seven-and-a-half months now, the question of the mark affecting her pregnancy, and as of yet, have come up with nothing.

"I'm afraid not." Dorian grimaces, managing to make even that expression look elegant. "The energy of the mark continues to fluctuate, though less than it did when you were actively closing rifts." At Guinevere's frown, he's quick to reassure her, "The child is healthy; that much she is certain of. You need not worry on that front. But as for the precise developmental stage, or the sex, I'm afraid she's as in the dark as you are."

She rubs at her belly, gnaws on the inside of her lip. It's... better news than she thought she'd have. So she didn't know the due date; plenty of women had given birth successfully without knowing. As for the baby's sex, her and Cullen weren't in any particular hurry to find out. They just wanted a healthy child.

"Why don't you go share the news of the child's good health with Cullen?" Dorian advises genially. "I'm certain that will brighten his day." That pulls her out of her thoughts.

"Is there any particular reason he needs cheering up?" she says, fear spiking brief and sharp before she shoves it down.

"Oh, well, I don't know," Dorian hedges, and at her stern look, he waves her away. "I just thought he looked particularly _grouchy_ this morning. I was under the impression you already knew." No, she _hadn't_ known; he'd left before she'd gotten up that morning, a note by the bed informing her that he'd work to take care of. She hasn't seen him all day, come to think of it.

"Where's the last place you saw him?"

* * *

 

Cullen isn't in the war room, or the Undercroft. The guards on watch haven't seen him, either, each offering a differing report on his possible location. When she questions whether they've checked his office, they assure her it's empty. "Was in there myself earlier, Your Worship. Didn't see hide nor hair of him, and he always yells down if he's about."

The stables, the tavern—still nothing. She's beginning to worry. Guinevere eyes the door to his office from her place in the courtyard, chewing on a thumbnail.

"Tell him they like it when he sings to them, and when he reads out loud."

She jerks, startled at the voice behind her, hand grasping for a blade that isn't there before she settles herself. "Cole, I don't have time to—"

"He's in his office. _Up high, quiet, soft, Maker, please, not now_. I think you should go up there. I can't because he won't let me help, but I think he'll let you in."

* * *

 

Guinevere isn't _quite_ wheezing when she gets up the stairs and reaches Cullen's office door, but it's a close thing. For once, she finds herself glad that's she's gotten so much practice climbing stairs around Skyhold. Still, she waits until she catches her breath before opening the door. "Cullen?"

No answer. The silence ticks by. She wonders if Cole was wrong, if Cullen wasn't—

A creak from the loft, so quiet she'd never have heard it if she hadn't been listening. Guinevere frowns. He's never ignored her like this, even when they'd been fighting. Her worry grows. She approaches the bottom of the ladder.

Darkness looms above her in the loft, no candles or other light, a tarp thrown across the opening in the ceiling to block out the sun. "Cullen, come down and talk to me." She squeezes her hand on the bottom rung.

Still nothing, and she is abruptly frustrated. Guinevere swears she can _feel_ him up there, listening, waiting for her to leave. Her mind flips through ideas, discarding one after the other before she settles on a plan. She licks her lips, sets another hand on the rungs.

"If you don't come down, I'm climbing up there, pregnant belly and all." She waits, holding her breath. When there is no response, she snorts, lifts a foot to press on the ladder. It creaks, as she knew it would, and there is a sudden scrambling above her.

"Andraste preserve me, woman, do _not_ go another step up that ladder! Are you mad?" Cullen's face finally appears at the top of the ladder, pale and drawn, and he is scowling, but she's no new recruit to be cowed so easily.

"I wouldn't have to climb it if you'd answered when I called," she growled. "Now are you coming down, or do I have to come up there?"

He swears, throwing a leg over the ladder and beginning to clamber down. He's shirtless, nothing but a loose pair of sleep trousers on, his hair damp and curling. _'Has he taken a bath?'_

Cullen's bare feet strike the floor, and when he turns angrily to face her, she rocks back. His hair is soaked not with water, but with sweat. There is an unhealthy flush to his cheeks, and the dark circles under his eyes emphasize their feverish light. "You couldn't leave me be for one day?" he growls, a catch to his breath at the end.

Now she knew why he'd been hiding.

"Maker's breath." She reaches a hand out to touch him, dropping it when he recoils from her. "When did it hit?"

He lets out a bitter laugh, scrubbing hands through his hair. "Does it really matter? It always finds me eventually."

"Cullen..."

"No," he snarls, beginning to pace in his agitation. "We need to face the truth: I am an _addict_." Cullen stops suddenly, hands clenching into fists. He must have been tormenting himself with this all day, she realizes. "What kind of parent am I going to make? A father who'll think more about _lyrium_ than his _child_."

"That's not _true_ ," she says fiercely, but he's shaking his head. "You're beating this, Cullen. You won't—"

"What?" he snaps. "Won't _what_ , Guinevere? Lose my mind to it? Wake up one day and hear screams or a song instead of the baby I should be caring for?" Cole's image flickers in her mind as Cullen continues. "I have _nothing_ to give to this child, and I was a fool to think—"

"The baby likes it when you sing," she blurts out, desperate to stop this downward spiral, praying to the Maker that Cole was right. Cullen flinches like she's just struck him. "They like it when you sing, or read to them."

"How could you know that?" Cullen whispers.

"Cole told me." She pads closer, stopping just shy of him. Guinevere can sense the knife-edge she's walking, knows that what she does, says, will push Cullen one way or the other. "And they kick, sometimes, when you read, don't you remember?"

"Stop it, Guinevere." Cullen's voice cracks, and he shudders.

"I love you. And I know you love me, _and_ our child. _That_ is what you have to give, Cullen."

"Don't do this, Gwen," he begs.

At her nickname, she presses her advantage, sensing an opening in the walls he's been constructing around himself. "You have knowledge; all that military strategy stored inside your mind. You have chess games and sword fights and those delicious little pastries you know how to make. You have love and affection. Cullen, you have _so much_."

His eyes close, head dropping to his chest. A broken sound leaves him when she finally, _finally_ , lets her hand rest on his shoulder. His skin burns under her touch, and he's shivering. She doesn't press too hard, waits for his signal—his skin can be painfully sensitive at times like this, and she doesn't want to hurt him. She wants to get him back into bed—wants to cradle him against her, but there is something _delicate_ here that she can't risk breaking. "Why?" he asks finally. "Why won't you leave me?"

She cups his jaw, tilts his head up to look at her. His eyes are wet when he finally meets her gaze. "There's no one else for me," she tells him quietly.

"Then I've ruined you." But his tension eases, and she tugs him carefully towards her, slides her arms around him as gently as she can. His head drops to her shoulder, and he's trembling, body rolling between hot and cold.

"Or you've made me better," she says, pressing a kiss to his sweat-soaked temple. "We'll get through this one together, just like always."

* * *

 

"I must advise caution, Your Worship," Josephine says. Guinevere shifts on the throne, _'Blasted things weren't made for pregnant women.'_ , leans towards her ambassador, grimacing at the strain in her back. "His judgment will be watched closely. Your enemies may very well hold this up as an example that you are no longer fit to pass judgment."

"Because I'm eight months along and emotional now, I suppose."

"Correct; in their minds, at least. Orlais would accept him for punishment. It is, perhaps, the best option, considering he is one of their nobles, though of a lower house."

Guinevere glances at Cullen where he stands on the other side of her throne, hands curled around the hilt of his sword. "Thoughts?"

He frowns. "I agree with shipping him off, but perhaps to somewhere a little _harsher_ than Val Royeaux."

"We'll find out," she murmurs, settling back as the prisoner is brought in. The noble, even in his torn finery, manages to appear haughty. Hair dirty and a carefully manicured beard growing into a patchwork mess, he spits at her feet as the guards drop him before the throne. _'Charming.'_

"The man before you," Josephine recites, "stands charged with attempts to aid and support Venatori in Orlais and Val Royeaux. He is also accused of playing a part in yet _another_ failed coup against Empress Celine."

Guinevere drums her fingers. "You must hate your country _very_ much. Anything to say before I pass judgment?"

"Pregnant, lyrium-guzzling bitch," the man snarls. Guinevere can hear the creak of Cullen's hands on his sword hilt. "You and your whelp can burn. I am a second cousin to Gaspard! My family owned lands before your dog-lord wretch of a lover was big enough to screw his own mother."

"Whereas you've been fooling about with deepstalkers, if the filth coming out of your mouth is any indication," she says mildly, ignoring the chuckles from the crowd. "In any case, I sentence you—"

"Throw me in your little cells," he sneers. "I'll be free by the time you birth your worthless pup." She rolls her eyes, but he can't help but add one last insult: "and when your bastard of Commander kills your baby, like all good Templars do, I'll laugh so hard, you'll hear me clear across the countryside." The crowd goes quiet.

Cullen's face is carefully blank when she stands and holds out a hand. There is a muscle twitching in his jaw, but his hands are steady as he draws his sword.

"Oh," the man scoffs. "Are you to have your dog intimidate me, now? You cannot kill me, and we _all_ know it, Inquisitor!"

"The sword's not for him," she says, taking the blade from Cullen. Guinevere steps down carefully, rolling the sword lightly, warming the muscles in her wrist. This one is heavier than her arcane blade, but she's had enough training that she adjusts quickly. Josephine lets out a pointed cough, but she ignores it. A glance at the guards has them moving to grip the chains holding the noble as she approaches.

There, she can see it in his eyes: a flicker of fear. "As if you can wield a sword. You wouldn't dare!"

She shrugs her shoulders, and swings.

There is a shriek and the sound of tearing clothing. The man shakes, staring up at her, shirt sliced open, a thin line scratched from his shoulder to his hip. "If I ever hear such words from you again, I will give you much, much worse than a scar to remember me by," she says coldly before turning to the assembled audience. "I sentence this man to six months at a work camp in the Wastes, before being transferred to a prison in Val Royeaux."

The crowd begins to murmur as she strides back up to her throne. As she turns to Cullen to return his sword, his head drops just a little, hiding his mouth from prying eyes as he whispers, "Are you alright?"

"I'm going to need practice when this is all over," she grunts. "I only meant to tear the shirt."

* * *

 

Guinevere reaches the nine month mark, and the baby _cannot come soon enough_. She feels huge and heavy, too much weight in all the wrong places. Soaking in a warm bath in their room, easing her back and aching feet, she narrows her eyes at Cullen where he sprawls across the couch with a book.

"If I get any bigger, you'll need Bull to start hauling me about in a wagon," she announces.

He turns a page without glancing up, though one corner of his mouth quirks. "I think we'll manage."

"Do you have any idea how much water came out of this tub when I climbed in?"

"Hardly any at all."

"I think it began to rain downstairs, Cullen."

He snorts, snapping the book shut and placing it on the table before rising from the couch. Cullen prowls towards her, golden hair glinting red in the light from the hearth. When he reaches her, he trails a hand through the warm water. She sinks a little deeper, glances up to his face.

His cheeks are tinted pink, pupils beginning to blow wide as his eyes devour the sight of her body under the water. "You can't seriously be thinking what I think you're thinking." She rolls her head back to watch him.

"Is that so hard to believe?" He kneels slowly beside the tub. "That the sight of you heavy with my child, bare for me, makes me want to drag you from the tub and take you on the bed?" The hand that was stirring the water slides up to cup one of her breasts, and she shivers, feeling a pang of heat begin to curl in her belly. She squirms a little.

"Cullen, I want—"

"I know," he breathes, grabbing her hands to tug her up. Water sloshes out of the tub, but they're both too intent on each other to notice. He holds her carefully as she steps out, making sure not to slip on the floor before he begins to crowd her backwards towards the bed.

She's breathless, hungry for him, but she's still so _big_. "From behind," she growls, catching his mouth with hers. "On my side, I can—"

"Yes," he hisses. "Maker, Gwen, the things I want to do to you."

"Later. Bed, now."

* * *

 

_The healer presents her with a basket, covered in a fine cloth. Guinevere can see the squirming underneath, takes the burden carefully. A distant part of her recognizes this as a dream, but she allows it to continue, lets her mind do as it will. "Congratulations!" the woman bellows. "It's a boy!"_

_"That's wonderful." Her heart pounds as she grips the fabric._

_"And it's a girl."_

_Guinevere blinks. "I'm... what? There should only be one."_

_"Oh, you had quite the litter, my dear."_

_Litter? But..._

_She tugs the blanket down, revealing bony puppies with amber eyes, too-large tongues lolling from crying mouths. Guinevere stares before glancing back up at the healer. "I don't have near enough nipples." She shifts the basket, and a hole opens up in the bottom of it, dumping the squealing puppies onto the ground._

_They wail, tiny howls in their throats as she sighs. "This is ridiculous."_

_There is a pop, almost like the crack of a log in the fireplace. Suddenly, she can feel the weight of eyes on her. She turns, pulling back the haze of the fade instinctually._

_A desire demon._

_They stare silently, facing off. Guinevere waits, expecting the offer of a deal to come at any moment, not wanting to fight until she's certain she has to. It's a weaker demon, with a softer energy, but it could still be a bother. Except that the demon says nothing. Its eyes drop to the puppies on the floor, and its brow furrows as if confused. It turns back to her and blinks._

_"Do you... desire puppies?" it asks, sounding puzzled._

_Guinevere groans, grinding her hand against her eye. "Not particularly."_

_The demon stares at her, glances down at the tiny animals around Guinevere's feet. "I don't understand." The demon tilts its head._

_"That makes two of us." The puppies are crying, and she begins to gather them up. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have fade puppies to take care of, for some reason."_

She opens her eyes. Bed. Pillow. Cullen, naked and warm behind her. Guinevere pinches the bridge of her nose. "Shit, that was weird."

* * *

 

It happens in the war room, because _of course._ She's with Leliana and Josephine, assigning map markers to their new locations. Cullen isn't there, instead on a short ride a few miles down the road to see off the Nevarran ambassador and his own commander. Cullen had been hesitant to leave Guinevere's side with how far into her pregnancy she is, but Josephine had been insistent.

"We _must_ remain on good terms with Nevarra, Commander. It is only a short jaunt down the road. You will be back in no time."

Cullen had pulled Guinevere aside before he left, pressing a soft kiss to her mouth. "Try not to have the baby without me," he'd murmured.

Naturally, not ten minutes after he left the gates, her water breaks.

* * *

  
They move her back upstairs to her room, though they have to fight her on it. "I _need_ to wait for Cullen!"

"The baby waits for no one, Inquisitor," the midwife snaps, arms full with towels and a heavy bag, assistants following like ducklings.

"Where's Abby?" Guinevere says frantically. "I'm not letting just anyone pull this baby out of my—"

"I'm afraid she suffered a fall this morning, Inquisitor," Josephine reaches out to squeeze Guinevere's hand when she groans. "She is recovering, but the stairs are a bit much for her at the moment."

"Of course, of course nothing can go _right_ —"

"Enough!" the midwife bellows, crowding Josephine back. "We have enough people as it is, _thank_ _you_. Out you go."

"Find Cullen and get his ass back here!" Guinevere shouts even as the assistants are leading Josephine down the stairs. "And get Abby to—get your hands off me! Touch me there again and you'll lose a hand, I don't care what you're checking for!"

* * *

 

Jim is on guard near the gates. He lets out a sigh, reaching up to scratch an itch behind his ear. Not for the first time, he ponders the many, many choices that led him here. There are times he almost feels as if the Maker is picking on him. He'd been a good enough guard, quietly climbing the ranks, and sure, he didn't pick up on things too quickly, but he'd been loyal.

And then he'd interrupted the Commander and the Inquisitor on the battlements. Jim had been sure that was the end—of his career, if not his life, based on the way they'd glared at him.

But, alright, he'd worked on it, been more cautious. It had been his fault, he'd been so eager to deliver Sister Leliana's report.

And then he'd interrupted them _again_ , and in an even _worse_ state than the last! He was starting to think he'd never climb out from under this dark little cloud that seemed to follow him everywhere.

He's interrupted from his musings as a gold-and-purple figure comes hurrying down the stairs. Jim recognizes her, vaguely, as the Ambassador—someone he's had little enough cause to interact with before now. The Commander would flay him for leaving his post, but he can't help himself, breaking away to intercept her.

"Lady Montilyet!" He almost grabs her arm, stops himself at the last minute. "What's going on?"

She doesn't even have to finish speaking before he understands: the Inquisitor is giving birth. The Commander needs to be told.

His time for redemption has come.

* * *

 

"That's it," Guinevere says firmly. "I'm leaving."

"You are going _nowhere_ , Your Worship. Out there, you're the Herald, certainly, but in _here_ , you are a woman preparing to give birth, and I will _not_ abandon my duty!"

"You'll have to stop me. I am _going_ to find Cullen," she snarls, shuddering as another contraction racks her frame. Her hands tighten on the bedpost, and she grits her teeth, breathes through her nose to fight through the pain. Fuck, she's had less pain fighting _dragons_.

"There is a guard outside the door," the midwife warns. "No one in, no one out, that's how this goes. Your Commander may be the baby's father, but he's not tied to you yet. Births are hard enough without the fathers pacing about and distracting—"

The fire in the hearth suddenly roars, blasting up into the chimney. The assistant who was preparing to heat a pot of water screams, dropping the kettle and backing away. More fire curls along Guinevere's fingers in her rage.

"He is mine in all but _name_. I will shove the baby back inside if I have to," she says. "Cullen is _going_ to be here, and you will get out of my way before I _burn the door down!"_ She shoves her way past the sputtering midwife, Guinevere's jaw set as she stalks down the stairs.

"Get back here!" the midwife yells. "Andraste's fucking ass, why do I always end up stuck with—"

Guinevere ignores her, so focused on the door that she almost misses the thud that rattles the thick wood. The voice that roars after it, however, is one no one could miss: "You will _not_ keep me from her!"

Guinevere scrambles for the handle, almost feels sorry for the guard before she whips the door open, a sob of relief rattling through her at the sight of Cullen on the other side, hand clenched on the guard's breastplate.

Cullen is soaked with sweat, hair beginning to curl, and his armor is still coated with road dust from his frantic ride back; his eyes are wild when he locks his gaze with hers, releasing the guard, who scrambles away down the hall without a backwards glance. Cullen snatches at her hands, embracing her. "Gwen, thank the Maker, I heard—"

"That's all good and well, but let's move it inside, shall we?" A raspy voice calls out. They break apart, and Guinevere's eyes widen when she sees Iron Bull grinning as he strides down the hall towards the door, Healer Abby perched on his shoulders.

"Heard someone needed a crazy old healer woman!" He laughs. "And look what I found. We've got you covered, boss. A whole team of people, just for you and the kid."

"A few people less!" There is a huff behind her, and the midwife shoves past. "She is _impossible_. You want to birth this child, you'll be doing it _without_ us!" And the assistants are darting out as well, following the midwife down the hall.

They are all quiet for a moment. "Well," Bull clears his throat. "I mean, I'll take her in there, but the rest is, ah, not really my thing."

Healer Abby pats Bull on the head, tiny and frail atop his shoulders. "We'll make do; it won't be the first time I'm the only guide. However, I do believe we have one person who can help." The woman grins a crooked smile at Cullen, revealing missing teeth. "Tell me, Commander, in all of your reading, how much did you learn about the birthing process?"

* * *

 

Guinevere's not sure how much time passes. It all starts to blur, cycles of fire and blessed relief if only because of the pain's absence. She's soaked with sweat, snapping at them like a feral thing when they drive her to her feet to pace around the room. She swears such blasphemy she'll be surprised later that the Maker didn't strike her down where she stood.

Then the pain _doesn't_ release, just keeps burning and burning and time skips, only hazy awareness of her own screaming, flashes of Cullen's hair, Healer Abby goading her from somewhere at the end of the bed.

A sound she's never heard before—something small and fragile, an angry cry bellowing from tiny lungs. Cullen's mouth is at her sweat-soaked temple, _"You did it, Gwen, you did it, can you hear?"_ and they're both crying, Guinevere sagging against Cullen in relief.

Healer Abby is fluttering around the bottom of the bed, wiping the baby clean and wrapping the blankets tight. And then she's pressing the bundle in Guinevere's arms before quietly leaving the room to give the new family some time alone.

Guinevere stares at the tiny creature in her arms. The baby is all wrinkled pink skin and fuzzy little golden curls, a tiny nose and huge grey eyes, and Guinevere's never loved someone so quickly in her entire life. Cullen drops his head on her shoulder, curling around her body. "She's beautiful," he whispers, sounding dazed. "I can't believe we..."

"She has your hair," Guinevere chuckles tearfully, lifting a finger to brush the baby's tufts of blonde hair. She lets her head loll back, brushes a tired kiss to Cullen's stubbled jaw. He rubs his cheek against her forehead, a hand lifting, hesitating, next to his daughter. Guinevere grins. She's never been so happy. "Well go on, take her and say hello. She's as much yours as mine."

Cullen lifts her carefully, so _very_ carefully, cradling her against his chest. He settles next to Guinevere, smiling as the baby looks up, lifts one tiny hand to reach for her father. Guinevere nuzzles into Cullen's shoulder as he drops his head, letting his daughter's fingers brush along his cheek.

"Hello," he whispers. "We're very pleased to meet you."


End file.
